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A GALLERY 



OF FAMOUS 



ENGLISH AND AMERICAN POETS. 

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, BY 

HENRY COPPEE, A.M, 

PROFF.SSOIl OF EXGLISH LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF PEKNSTI.TANIA. 




RICHLY ILLUSTRATED 

WITH A HUNDRED STEEL ENGRAVINGS, EXECUTED IN THE FIRST STYLE OF THE 
ART, MOSTLY FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY DISTINGUISHED ARTISTS. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 

1859. 



Prf? 1175- 



KritcTi'd. aceoriling to Act of Con^rops, in the year 1S58, 

iiY K. 11. nrri.KR & co., 

In the CliM-U's -.lITii-i^ of till' District (.'onrt for tin; lOiislcrn Oislrict of I'cniisylvnnia. 



Herbert Pel! 
March 18, 1943 



CONTENTS. 



INTRODUCTION, . . . . 
JAMES THOMSON. 

HYMN ON TUE SEASONS, ' . . 
ON A COUNTRY LIFE, . . . 

WILLIAM COLLINS. 



ODE TO EVENING, 



DIRGE IN CYMBELINE, .... 

THOMAS GRAY. 

EI.EGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 

CHURCHYARD, 

THE BARD, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE, . . . 
RETALIATION, 



JAMES BEATTIE. 



MORNING LANDSCAPE, 
THE HERMIT, . . . 
TUE SAGE, .... 



PAGE 

33 
40 



45 

48 



49 
56 



62 
80 



87 
88 
91 



WILLIAM COWPER. 

RURAL SOUNDS, 92 

LOVE OF NATURE, 94 

LINES ON THE RECEIPT OK MY 

mother's PICTURE, .... 97 

A COMPARISON, 101 



ROBERT BURNS. 



TAM O SHANTER, . . . 
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN, 
TO MARY IN HEAVEN, . . 



102 
111 
115 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 

coll' alto, 117 

the brides of venice, . . . 121 

don garzia, 126 

GINEVRA, 129 

WILLIAM AYORDSWORTH. 

A RURAL HERO, 133 

THE SKATER, ....... 136 

ODE TO DUTY, 138 

THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, . . 140 

WALTER SCOTT. 



THE CYPRESS WREATH, . 



163 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE 

VALE OF CHAMOUNI, . . . . 165 

LOVE, 169 

ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

SUNDAY MORNING, 174 

THE HOLLY TREE, 176 

THE DESERT-THIRST, 177 

CHARLES LAMB. 

HESTER, 180 

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES, . .182 

THE FAMILY NAME, ..... 183 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC, . 184 



CONTENTS. 



THE SOIiDIERS DREAM, 
HALLOWED GROUND, . 



HORACE SMITH. 

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS, . . . 
ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY, 

THOMAS MOORE. 

I SAW FROM THE BEACH, . . . 

WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY's 
TEARS, 

OH ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LIT- 
TLE ISLE OF OUR OWN, . . 

DRINK TO HER, 

JAMES MONTGOMERY. 



RECLUSE. 

THE FIELD OF THE WORLD, . . 

REGINALD HEBER. 

THE HUNTING-PARTY, .... 

SONG, 

I SEE THEM ON THEIR WINDING 



PAGE 

188 
190 



195 

198 



201 

202 

204 
205 



207 
209 



211 
214 



WAY, 214 



JAMES GRAHAME. 

THE SABBATH, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM, . . 
PREMONITION OF DEATH, . . . 

LORD BYRON. 



VENICE, .... 
EVENING TWILIGHT, 



MRS. SOUTHEY, 

THE pauper's DEATHBED, . . 
THE mariner's HYMN, . . . 



216 



224 

226 



227 
234 



239 

241 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



JOHN KEBLE. 

MORNING, 243 

CHRISTMAS DAY, 246 

GOOD FRIDAY, 249 

EVENING, 252 



THE CLOUD, 
TO A SKYLARK, 



FELICIA HEMANS. 
Washington's statue, . . . 

THE better LAND, .... 

THE RHINE, 

A PARTING SONG, .... 



JOHN KEATS. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 
TO AUTUMN, .... 
SONNET TO KOSCIUSKO, 



PAQE 

256 
259 



264 
265 
267 
269 



270 
272 
274 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 



THE SUMMER MONTHS, 



276 



THOMAS HOOD. 



280 

282 



287 



FAIR INES, 

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS, .... 

LORD MACAULAY. 

THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS, . . 

ELIZABETH BARRETT 
BROWNING. 

loved once, ....... 302 

cowper's grave, . . . . ■ . 304 

THE lady's " YES," 308 

THE sleep, 310 

seraph and poet, 312 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 
the brook, 313 

THE charge of THE LIGHT BRI- 
GADE, 321 

WILLIAM C. BRYANT. 

A FOREST HYMN, 325 

THANATOPSIS, 329 

THE PAST, 333 

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 



MARCO BOZZARIS, 



336 



CONTENTS. 



N. P. WILLIS. 

PAOE 

THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER 

OF JAIRUS, 341 

DEDICATION HYMN, ..... 34G 



HENRY WADSWORTH 
LONGFELLOW. 

THE CASTLE BY THE SEA,. . . 348 

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP, . 350 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS, . . 364 

A RHYMED LESSON, 365 



EDGAR A. POE. 



THE BELLS, 

THE HAUNTED PALACE, . . 

GEORGE P. MORRIS. 



372 
376 



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE, . 378 
" LAND HO !" 380 



GEORGE H. BOKER. 



A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANK- 



LIN, 



381 



WILLIAM G. SIMMS. 



THE BROOKLET, . . . 


. . . 387 


THE LOST PLEIAD, . . 


. . . 388 


BILLOWS, 


. . . 390 



GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 



SABBATH EVENING, 
TO A LADY, . . 



ROBERT T. CONRAD. 



THE STRICKEN, . . 
THE PRIDE OF WORTH, 
SONNET, 



A. C. COXE. 



THE HEART S SONG, 
WAYSIDE HOMES, . 



L' ENVOI. BY THE EDITOR, 



391 

393 



394 
394 
396 



397 
398 

400 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Subject. 

Mount Parnassus, .... 

The Bakd, 

Portrait of James Thomson, 

Spring, 

Summer, 

Autumn, 

"Winter, 

On a Country Life, . . . 
On a Country Life, . . . 

Evening, 

Portrait of Thomas Gray, . 

The Elegy, 

The Elegy, 

The Bard, 

Cenotaph to Oliver Goldsmith, 
The Deserted Village, . , 
The Deserted Village, . . 
The Deserted Village, , , 
The Deserted Village, . . 

Retaliation, 

Retaliation, 

Morning Landscape, . . . 

The Hermit, 

Rural Sounds, 

Love of Nature, .... 
Lines on tub Receipt of my Mo- 
ther's Picture, .... 
Portrait of Robert Burns, 

Tam o' Shanter, 

Man was made to Mourn, . 



Author. Designer. 

. Hamilton, after Cresiv 
, Schmolze, . 
. /. Gilbert, . 
. Schmolze, . 



Ick, 



Thomson, 
Thomson, 
Thomson, 
Thomson, 
Thomson, 
Thomson, 
Collins, . 



Gray, 
Gray, 
Gray, 



Goldsmith, 
Goldsmith, 
Goldsmith, 
Goldsmith, 
Goldsmith, 
Goldsmith, 
Beattie, . 
Beattie, . 
Cowper, . 
Cowper, . 

Cowper, . 



Burns, 
Burns, 



Schmolze, . 
Schmolze, . 
Schmolze, . 
Schmolze, . 
Schmolze, . 
Devereux, . 



Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 



Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Devereux, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 

Devereux, 



. Schmolze, 
. Schmolze, 



Page 
1 
2 
33 
34 
36 
38 
39 
41 
44 
46 
49 
51 
55 
61 
62 
63 
67 
70 
76 
80 
85 
87 
89 
92 
96 

97 
102 
109 
111 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Turner, 
Vasari, 



Leslie, . 

ScJimoIze, 

Schmolze, 

ScJnnolze, 

ScJimoIze, 

Schmolze, 

Schmolze, 



Subject. Author. Designer. 

To Mart in Heavex, Burns, . . . Schmolze, 

Portrait of Samuel Rogers, Lawrence, 

Coll' Alto, Rogers, . 

The Brides of Venice, .... Rogers, . 

Don Garzia, Rogers, . 

Ginevra, Rogers, . 

Portrait of William Wordsivorth, .... 

A Rural Hero, Wordsworth, . Schmolze, 

The Skater, Wordsworth, . Schmolze, 

The Eclipse op the Sun, . . . Wordsworth, . ... 

Portrait of Walter Scott, 

The Battle of Flodden, . . . Scott, . . 

The Battle of Flodden, . . . Scott,. . 

MoxT Blanc, Coleridge, 

Love, Coleridge, 

Sunday Morning, Southey, 

The Desert-Thirst, Southey, 

Portrait of Charles Lamb, 

The Old Familiar Faces, . . . Lamb, . . . Schmolze, . 

Portrait of Thomas Campbell, Lawrence, . 

Battle of the Baltic, .... Campbell, . . Turner, 

Soldier's Dream, Campbell, . . Turner, 

Hallowed Ground, Campbell, . . Schuessele,. 

Hallowed Ground, Campbell, . . Schmolze, . 

Hallowed Ground, Campbell, . . Timer, . . 

Hymn to the Flowers, .... Horace Smith,. Schmolze, . 

Portrait of Thomas Moore, Laivrence, . 

Were not the SINFUL Mary's tears, Moore, . . . Schuessele,. 

Drink to Her, Moore, . . . Devereux, . 

Recluse — The Fountain, .... Montgomery, . Turner, . . 

Portrait of Reginald Heber, 

The Hunting-Party, Heber, . 

I SEE them on their Winding Way, Heber, . 

The Sabbath, Grahame, 

The Sabbath, Grahame, 

The Sabbath, . ; Grahame, 

Portrait of Henry Kikke White, .... 

Venice, Byron, . 

Venice, Byron, . 

Evening Twilight, Byron, . 

The Pauper's Deathbed, .... Mrs. Southey. 



Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 
Schmolze, 



Turner, . 
Turner,. 
Turner, . 
Schmolze, 



Piijre 

115 
117 
120 
125 
126 
l.SO 
133 
1.34 
140 
143 
152 
155 
162 
165 
169 
174 
179 
180 
182 
183 
186 
188 
190 
191 
192 
195 
201 
203 
205 
207 
211 
212 
215 
216 
218 
220 
224 
227 
231 
236 
239 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Subject. Author. Designer. 

Portrait op John Keble, G. Richmond, 

Christmas Dax, Kehle, . . . Schmolze, 

Good Friday, Keble, . . . Warren, 

Evening, Keble, . . . Schmolze, 

The Cloud, Shelley, . . . Turner, . 

Portrait of Felicia Hemans, Fletcher, 

The Better Land, Hemans, , . Schmolze, 

The Rhine, Hemaiis, . . Turner, . 

Portrait of John Keats, J. Severn, 

To Autumn, Keats, . . . Schmolze, 

Sonnet to Kosciusko, ..... Keats, . . . Turner,. , 

The Summer Months, Motherwell, . Schmolze, . 

Fair Ines, Hood, . . . Schmolze, , 

The Prophecy of Capys [Profusely 

Illustrated), Macaiday, . . Scharf, . , 

The Brook, Tennyson, , . Schmolze, . 

The Charge op the Light Brigade, Tennyson, . . Turner, . . 

A Forest Hymn, Bryant, . . . Schmolze, . 

Thanatopsis, Bryant, . , . Schmolze, . 

Marco Bozzaris, Halleck, . . Turner, . , 

The Healing of the Daughter of 

Jairus, . Willis, . . . Schuessele, . 

Dedication Hymn, Willis, . . . Schuessele, . 

The Castle by the Sea, .... Longfellow, . Devereux, . 

The Building op the Ship, . . . Longfelloiv, . Schmolze, . 

Woodman, Spare that Tree, . . Morris, . . . Devereuxj . 

A Ballad of Sir John Franklin, Bolter, . . . Devereux, . 

The Heart's Song, Coxe, . . . Franldin, . 

L' Envoi, By the Editor, Turner, . . 



Page 
243 
247 
250 
254 
256 
264 
266 
268 
270 
27.3 
275 
276 
280 

287 
313 
323 
325 
331 
339 

.341 
346 
348 
350 
378 
381 
398 
400 



INTRODUCTION. 



In the following pages we offer to our readers a col- 
lection of beautiful passages from the English Poets. 
They are arranged in chronological order, and embody 
the technically modern period, from Thomson to our 
own time : Ave have included, also, with the renowned 
masters of English verse, a feAV of our own American 
Poets, eminently worthy to appear in such a catalogue. 
Our first design Avas to collate the former alone, but the 
latter have, as it Avere, risen in their native majesty and 
harmony, to demand at least a partial representation. 

Such a collectioii Avould, in itself, give value to this 
A'olume, but, to enhance its merits in an eminent degree, 
exquisite art has been brought into the service, in a 
manner as striking and beautiful as it is novel. In this 
respect, the Avork, it is thought, has no superior. 

The first problem of difficulty in arranging the ex- 
tracts herein contained, was found in the great extent 
of English poetry. To giA^e even a glimpse of all its 
scenes Avas impossible ; to pass, cA^'en in rapid revicAV, 
among them, the Avhole honorable procession of robed 
and crowned poets, to the marshalling of pursuiA'ant and 
herald, Avas not to be thought of. 

It is not without regret that Ave find ourselves com- 
pelled to choose, like the angle of an artist's picture, a 
limited period and a distinct number, to the exclusion 



X INTRODUCTION. 

of other bright periods and great numbers of immortal 
poets, who, m former times, have turned flowers of earth 
into amaranth, and transformed curious pebbles by Na- 
ture's beautiful wayside into gems of the purest water. 

Whatever may be thought of our choice — and there 
are those besides the archeeologists who Avould prefer 
another, — let it not be thought that any injustice is 
designed to periods and poets here excluded. Our 
popular sympathies are with the present ; the past is 
ever distant ; Art seizes with a more electric fancy the 
winged thought as it issues from living lips; and Poetry 
lays its choicest tributes of elegy and dirge where the 
poet's grave is still green, and holy memories still linger 
where the " Druids lie asleep." 

But we have a better philosophy of selection than 
mere modern taste. Were our theme " Great English 
Poets," what could be said to excuse our neglect of 
Chaucer — ^^old Father Chaucer — the great poet, and, by 
inference, historian and philosopher of that moonlit 
morning of English Letters, before the day-daAvn of 
Queen Elizabeth's reign 1 In that dark and early period, 
it may indeed be said of him, 

" All the earth and air 

With (his) voice is loud, 
As when night is bare 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed." 

What of courtly Edmund Spenser, whose love-light 
irradiates the already brilliant reign of the Virgin 
Queen, — the poet of the " gentle virtues" and the alle- 
gorist of heavenly truth ] 

How could we plead for. pardon with stern old John 



INTRODUCTION. xi 

Milton — so grand in thought and harmonions in speech, 
that he drops his poet's lyre, once attuned to his own 
sadness and sorrow, to sweep a seraph's harp, vibrating 
only to the chantings of Paradise and the voice of God : 
and yet so wondrous strong in both to thrill and fire the 
human soul, that we say of him as he touches either 
string : 

" Sing, seraph, witli the glory ! Heaven is high ! 
Sing, poet, with the sorrow ! Earth is low ! 
The universe's inward voices cry 

'Amen' to either voice of joy and woe." 

And of Shakspeare ! what '? 

But we need not enumerate the great names not in 
these pages. Worthy of reverence and admiration as 
they are, we repeat that they are not here ignored or 
neglected; it was not our present purpose to pay our 
homage to them : that must be reserved for other oc- 
casions. 

There is in the history of English poetry what is 
known as the " transition period," and the writers which 
adorn it have been constituted the " transition school." 

It is known that every great work of English litera- 
ture is marked by the characteristics of the English 
History in which it appeared ; taking its hue now with 
Spenser from the fairy court of the Virgin Queen ; again 
with Milton from the troublous times of the Civil War, 
the Eepublic, and the Protectorate ; anon, with Dryden, 
presenting every change in the state, political and re- 
hgious, from Cromwell to Charles II, from Charles to 
James, chronicling thus the very statistics of English 
History ; — but the period to which we refer as the 



xli INTRODUCTION. 

transition school, while it had much of this historic 
philosophy, was of a character more abstract and meta- 
physical than historical. It was a change from the ideal 
to the real, from the abstract in imagination to " the 
palpable and familiar," from the fairy land of Fancy 
to Nature's sunshine and verdure. Not to weary our 
readers with the details of the old system, which passed 
through many modifications, but of which Dryden and 
Pope were the most renowned masters, — we refer them, 
in token of the great change, to Thomson, Cowper, and 
Crabbe, as the writers of the transition school, sub- 
sidizing nature, and throwing off the classic trammels 
of pastoral and heroic, for truth, feeling, and freedom. 
They were, indeed, but the originators ; the full develop- 
ment of the change must be found, — not unattended 
with errors, as well of thought as of diction, — in Byron, 
AVords worth, Coleridge, and their legionaries. 

This, then, was our starting-point ; there seemed to be 
a continuity from that period to our own ; and we have 
in the pages that follow, brought together a few poets of 
this later period, beginning with Thomson. While the 
space devoted to each is not so great as to give a just 
idea of the author himself, still each extract, it is hoped, 
has its own peculiar merit and beauty, and this is repro- 
duced to the eye by the magnificent engravings which 
accompany so many of them. 

Nor is this all ; the illustrations are not, as has been 
the custom in works of selected poetry, placed opposite 
the poem or lines to be thus interpreted to the eye by 
art, like a frontispiece or vignette ; Avith great ingenuity, 
and with charming effect, they have been printed upon 
the page itself, in each case, as a part of the poem, thus 



INTRODUCTION. xiii 

joining the poet and artist, in bonds of rare power, and 
producing, as the effect, an exuberance of beauty and 
strength. 

An effort has been made, in the choice of the ex- 
tracts, to avoid, when possible, taking fragments of the 
longer and more elaborate poems of any author, as these, 
in most cases, bearing the necessary relation of parts to 
a whole, would have an air of incompleteness, and would 
require, indeed, a study of the whole poem to give them 
their true value and effect. But, in a few cases, such 
extracts have been more than practicable; they have 
been very complete and unit-like. 

Fortunately for the beginning of our work, Thomson 
has given us, in his " Hymn," a beautiful and devout 
resume of his great work, " The Seasons," to which 
midtiform art has been most effectively applied, in- 
voking alike the balniy breezes of spring, the grateful 
noonshade of summer, the russet fruits of autumn, and 
the tinkling bells and sounding skates of winter. The 
devout invocation of the Hymn is a very fitting and 
appropriate opening to our Poet's Gallery. 

It belongs to the poet's mind, indeed, to conceive 
such gigantic schemes, and block out in fancy such 
colossal heroes, that most poets have left their ideals 
un wrought in real verse ; the sequel remains unwritten 
or there is left to some unworthy hand the task of 
making a halting, disconnected, and dwarfed conclusion 
to the splendid thought of the poet's genius. Such was 
Chaucer's great scheme in those rare cabinet pictures of 
English life which are drawn for us in the Canterbury 
Talcs ; they would have brought old England, in all its 
ranks and characters, doAvn to the latest generations, 



xiv INTRODUCTION. 

had not the poet died long before the completion of his 
work. His pilgrims are still on the Roman Koad to 
Canterbury. Such was Spenser's thought in designing 
the twelve books of his Faerie Queen, to inculcate the 
twelve great moral virtues of a gentle person; and in 
looking beyond this to another work of like gigantic 
scope, which should represent, in allegory, the iJoUtical 
virtues as well as the moral : he died when six books of 
his first part were completed, and no one has dared to 
follow him into the gorgeous " faerie land" of his fancy. 

And so, too, must the poet's reality always be in its 
relation to his great idea : Genius may plume her wings, 
" mewing her mighty youth," for a sun-distant soaring ; 
but the eventide will come, when she must descend to 
earth again, and leave the empyrean for another sun, 
and a newer pinion. 

Yet although this is just cause of regret to all lovers 
of English poetry, and admirers of the great English 
poets ; still, there are, besides these great Torsos of the 
Imagination, the smaller, more gem-like poems, of various 
kinds, which are at once characteristic of the poet, and 
symmetrical in themselves. According to a law of crys- 
tals, if a large mass be shivered into fragments, each is 
in itself a perfect crystal, whose plane surfaces and angles 
are the same as those of the larger mass ; and each is the 
primitive form assigned to that crystal. Such is the 
poet's mind: each thought reflects the light of immor- 
tality from the same source; each verse is a luminous 
and symmetrical miniature of the great life work ; and 
Milton calls a true poet's life, a great poem. These 
smaller crystals it has been our purpose to gather and 
arrange here. 



INTRODUCTION. xv 

It Avill be no more than proper to give to the readers 
of this work a passing commentary on the extracts which 
it contains. It must be brief, and unencumbered by sta- 
tistics. 

After the extracts from Thoatson, we have introduced 
that beautiful " Ode to Evening," by Collins, not so 
generally appreciated as it deserves to be, because it 
wants the tinkling rhyme of popular admiration ; but 
Avhich is in reality as nearly perfect as anything in our 
knowledge. It is charmingly illustrated by the ethereal 
form whose 

" Folding-star arising shows 
His paly circlet." 

Of all the poets, none appears to have written with 
more foreknowledge of illustration, than Thomas Gray, 
whose " Elegy in a Country Churchyard" has inspired 
the pencil of Art to constant attempts at interpretation, 
ever since it was written. It is indeed a series of four- 
lined poems, rather than a connected poem ; and each 
stanza would bear an illustration. 

" The Bard" is a picture of History too striking to need 
comment; the days and deeds of Cadwallo, Urien, and 
INIodred, are days also of lofty romance, and bring back 
ever and anon, to our ears, the distant, fitful sound of 

" Highborn Hod's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay." 

No one will regret to see so large a space devoted to 
Goldsmith. " The Deserted Village" is the most beau- 
tiful and pathetic of moral lessons, and cannot be pre- 
sented or read too often ; and " Ketaliation" has the 
charm of biographic touches which render it a parti- 



xvi INTRODUCTION. 

cular favorite. That Goldsmith looked up with reve- 
rence to Dr. Johnson, even in the domain of Poetry, and 
that Dr. Johnson is the author of some of the fine lines 
in both " The Traveller" and " The Deserted Village," 
only render the conclusion more astonishing that Gold- 
smith is read by an admiring world, while " London" is 
praised by the critical few. 

With fewer claims to popularity, Beattie has still left 
us some exquisitely fresh pictures of Nature, and some 
finely-expressed moral sentiments, which invoke a place 
in our Gallery. There are few things simpler and sweeter 
than the picture he has drawn, — himself, one would 
think, unconscious of its power, so simple is its lan- 
guage, — to illustrate " The Melodies of Morn :" 

" The wild brook babbling down tbe mountain side ; 
The lowing herd, the sheepfold's simple bell." 

Among the poets who form the transition school, 
CowPER is one of the greatest names. Entirely in love 
with Nature himself, he treats of trivial and common 
things in plain, vigorous English, and over all he throws 
an atmosphere of devotion Avhich makes Nature radiant 
with the Divinity. As a type of his life, its sorrow, its 
doubts, and its gentleness, his " Lines on the Eeceipt of 
My Mother's Picture," have a value apart from his own 
meaning ; they are in epitome an unconscious auto- 
biography of the poet's heart. 

And what shall we say of Burns, poor Burns ! He 
held the pen of a philosopher, but led a life of sorrow 
and excess. As we read his sage advice, his lessons and 
warnings to Tarn, his moralizings upon life and death, 
and then reflect upon his own sad experience, we are 



INTRODUCTION. xvii 

ready to exclaim with the poetess, in very sadness and 
sympathy : 

" men ! this man in brothevliood, 

Your weary paths beguiling, 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 

And died while you were smiling." 

AVhat would English literature bo without Burns '? 
How could the world spare " Tam o' Shanter" 1 Where 
is the counterpart to " Mary in Heaven" 1 

Of lloGERS and Campbell, the poets of Memory and 
Hope, it must ever be allowed that in their longer poems 
they have laid up their principal treasures, — treasures of 
fine thought, careful finish, elaborate ornamentation ; 
making the verse of one to glide like rippling water, — the 
ever-changing, but gentle stream, upon which Memory 
wafts her favored voyager ; and giving to the fine heroics 
of the other, a richness of tone, now soft and sweet, like 
the music of " Love's Young Dream," and anon startling 
and trumpet-like, inspiring to deeds of patriotic valor. 

But though this is true of their larger poems, the fine 
" staccato passages" in " Italy" give us real fragmentary 
beauties from Rogers ; a Picture 

"Done by Zampieri, but by whom I care not" ; 

a Statue ; a Gondola at St. Mark's, or a Doge's gilded 
barge " Bucentaur" wedding the Adriatic. And there 
was a sphere in which Campbell has always moved 
alone ; his martial lyrics making him the undisputed 
laureate of the battle-field, and the thundering deck of 
" native oak." " The Battle of the Baltic" and " Hohen- 
linden" are not excelled by any lyrics, in any language, 
ancient or modern. 



xviii INTRODUCTION. 

One fragment of Wordsworth seems to be an excep- 
tion to extracts from large poems, in general. It is that 
lifelike description of tlie Skater, from the " Childhood 
and Schooltime" of the " Prelude," which the artist has 
represented to us by a graceful figure of a young skater, 
with arms folded, and eyes fairly dancing with the soli- 
tary sport. Wordsworth will bear, less than any English 
poet, to be read in fragments such as would supply our 
present need ; although many thoughts, expressed even 
in two or three lines, are particularly well suited for illus- 
trative quotation. To appreciate him, his Avorks must 
be studied. His poems are the history of his life, ardent, 
contemplative, and original; hence, in themselves, it is 
to be feared, they will lose something of that interest 
which belongs very much to his own identity ; and as 
time rolls on, and that identity becomes shadowy and 
indistinct in the past, " the School of Wordsworth" will 
give place to one, of Avhich action, vigor, and intellectual 
motion shall be the splendid characteristics. But if 
such shall be the verdict of time as to the school which 
he has established, there are beauties in his own poems 
which the " world will not willingly let die :" and by 
these his name will be transmitted, honored and che- 
rished to the latest generations, 

Not a word need be said here of Scott, whose " Lay" 
and " Lady" are the very music and heroine of chivalric 
sentiment, even in our work-day world. Flodden Field 
owes to him an immortality which its own importance 
could never have claimed, and Marmion is our beau- 
ideal of a bold and unscrupulous English knight in those 
days of bold and unscrupulous dealing. As a spirited 
and highly finished battle-piece " Flodden" has been 
introduced. 



INTRODUCTION. xix 

Coleridge's Hymn to Mont Blanc is a magnificent 
burst of poetical devotion. How cliarmingiy has our 
own satirist and poet, Holmes, described its author, its 
electric fancy, its vocal bursts : 

" Unblest by any save the goatherd's lines, 
Mont Blanc rose soaring through his ' sea of pines 3' 
In vain the Arve and Arveivon dash, 
No hymn salutes them but the Ranz des Vaches; 
Till lazy Coleridge, by the morning's light, 
Gazed for a moment on the fields of white, 
And lo ! the glaciers found at length a tongue, 
Mont Blanc was vocal, and Chamouni sung." 

The poem of " Love," or " Genevieve," is the perfec- 
tion of pure sentiment most charmingly expressed. 

It is difficult to find words in which to express briefly 
a just criticism of Southey ; he was so learned, so para- 
doxical, so truth-loving, so obstinate, so egotistical, and 
withal so just to himself and his well-earned fame ; but 
he has left many noble poems in very pure English, and 
from them we have chosen two beautiful smaller pieces, 
and a graphic scene from his colossal epic, " Thalaba." 

The sphere of Charles Lamb was eminently poetical, 
and yet he has made but few essays in verse. But if 
high sentiment, noble diction, and pathetic earnestness, 
all lavished upon worthy subjects, are elements of poetry, 
then the essays of Elia are full of poetry. Vivid, con- 
templative, witty, they are prose poems, destined to im- 
mortality. Of his works in verse, the " Old Familiar 
Faces" will always be recognized as his most striking- 
production : as such it has been introduced with an apt 
illustration, — Nature showering her leafy tears upon a 
stranger in his own home, seeking in vain to find " the 
old familiar faces." 



XX INTRODUCTION. 

Horace Smith is known more generally in England 
than in this country, as one of the authors of the " Hc- 
jected Addresses," but he has achieved his truest fame, 
in our judgment, by his " Hymn to the Flowers," which 
is always fresh, odorous, and musical. Glance at the 
rich handiwork of the artist, and acknowledge that he 
has fairly caught its spirit and its power. 

Of Moore, so long the poet of love and society, we 
are loth to think as always basking in that false and 
lurid light ; his love was often license, and society was 
the idol at whose shrine he burnt his best poetic incense. 
But those who have listened in former days to 

" The idle tinkling of the minstrel's lyre", 

turn now with truer pleasure to those Sacred Melodies, 
which are fervent with devotion, and overflowing with 
tears. What a debt of gratitude, too, does his country 
owe him for the Irish Melodies ! What a glorious 
retrieval of airs which had degenerated into union with 
low and vulgar w^ords ! What a happy marriage of such 
time-honored music to chivalry and glorious sentiment ! 
Thus should Moore be remembered. 

With the name of James Montgomery, arises to the 
mind a vision of glorious moral virtues, — godliness, 
philanthropy, and contentment. If not a great poet, he 
is a good one, and is well loved and cherished by mil- 
lions in England and America. It may be doubted if 
any one ever read " The Field of the World," without 
an emotion and a resolution for the better. 

What a power is conferred upon the Poetic Muse ! 
It is the power herself to confer immortality for a few 
words of genius, hastily conceived, rapidly Avritten, but, 



INTRODUCTION. xxi 

when once printed, forever to be shouted from millions 
of hearts, by millions of voices, to every zenith. 

Such was the noble aAvaid of poetry to IIeber. 
Scholar, Bishop, missionary of the Cross, he is better 
known and more constantly honored as the writer of 
that most beautiful of Christian ballads, 

"From Greenland's icy mountains," 

which moves with such pleasant, undulating motion 
alike to the chanting of baby tongues, and of manly 
bass. It was deemed unnecessary to repeat it in this 
collection — because it is in every one's memory. 

It is well known that General Wolfe, as he floated 
upon the St. Lawrence on the memorable night before 
his attack, thought it more desirable to have written 
Gray's Elegy than to take Quebec ; but the electric 
popularity of the Missionary Hymn is far greater than 
that of the Elegy, and the fame of the author quite as 
enduring, g,s that Avhich rewards the genius of Gray. 

To please the admirers of Grahame — all will respect 
his holy theme — we have introduced an extract from his 
" Sabbath ;" it is unexceptionable in tone, and calming 
in its effects upon the mind; and its real merits have 
here been greatly enhanced by the beautiful illustrations 
of the artist. 

We cannot claim to be among those whose enthusiasm 
for his piety has led them to rank Kirke W^hite among 
the first English poets ; but his sad story lends an inte- 
rest to his verses, quite as great as genius itself could do. 
Nor are they Avanting in a certain power and beauty. 
Especially are the closing stanzas of his fragment, " The 



xxii INTRODUCTION. 

Christiad," extremely touching and effective, — the half- 
resigned — half-reluctant death-song of a gifted boy. 
" The Star of Bethlehem" is a Christian hymn every- 
where known and loved. 

It is characteristic of Genius that she loves to fledge 
and foster her offspring in lowly nests: and so for the 
first time in our catalogue we come upon a nohle singer ; 
on many accounts the most remarkable of the English 
poets of his time, — Lord Byron. It is related in one of 
Spence's anecdotes, that after Pope had been reading to 
an old lady a canto of Spenser's " Faerie Queen," she 
declared he had been showing her a gallery of paintings. 
To make such a gallery was Byron's aim in the com- 
position of Childe Harold, and we are consequently at 
no loss for fine and complete pictures in that poetic 
record of his travels. A view of the Rhine with its 
song of Drachenfels ; Seville in its rare Southern beauty ; 
Rome, " the Niobe of nations ;" Clarens, " birth-place 
of deep love ;" — wherever the eye turns it rests upon a 
magnificent landscape, in which the prominent figure is 
always the same, — the restless, morbid, world-hating 
poet himself, the " Childe" of his own story. Of all his 
beautiful descriptions none is grander or more touching 
than that of Venice — Venice appealing through the 
poet, to England, that 

" The Ocean Queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children ;" 

the old lion of St, Mark invoking the favor and pro- 
tection of the majestic young lion of Britain. It is less 
common, too, than many others, and has been for that 
reason selected in this work. 



i 



INTRODUCTION. xxiii 

Mrs. SouTHEY is known both by her OAvn name, Caro- 
line Bowles, and by her husband's overshadowing name, 
as a woman of high intellectual and poetic powers ; of 
her genius we have striking proof in that grand poem, 
" The Pauper's Deathbed." There can be nothing finer 
than the stanza, beginning, 

" change, O wondrous change ! 
Burst are the prison bars !" 

It is overwhelming in thought and diction. 

"Who does not love George Herbert — the very name 
is a sweet savor of sanctity. The mantle of Herbert 
has descended upon Keble ; while, with an originality, 
an identity as marked as that of any English poet, he 
has completed the idea of Herbert, and formed for us, 
in living strains, a companion for every Sunday and 
great day in England's ecclesiastical year. The idea is 
not, indeed, a new one, for in England, Henry Vaughan 
had sung in holy and humble notes of the great doctrines 
of the English Church, and the days of their showing 
forth, according to its ritual; and on the Continent, in 
Germany, Paul Gerhardt, Weiszel, Rist, Richter, Luther, 
and others, impelled by holy fervor, had written verses 
upon the principal Sundays in the year ; but there is no 
work in any language which is the basis of Keble's 
" Cluistian Year ;" and no poet has ever equalled him in 
the beauty of its manifold parts. Its popularity extends 
far beyond his own communion, and proves the catho- 
licity of its pious spirit. 

Of all the poets the most strikingly individual is 
Shelley. He seems to write for himself, not for the 
world ; the strings of his lyre are attuned to his own 



xxiv INTRODUCTION. 

heart, his own hopes, and his own aspirations ; and be- 
yond these he cares not to look. Shocking society by 
his views of hfe, and his practice ; ahenating even Chris- 
tian charity by his blasphemy ; self-deceived by a kind 
of organic sophistry in these vital matters ; he soothed 
himself by Poetry : she was his kindly nurse, his gentle 
companion ; and had he not met a premature death, so 
strangely shadowed forth in " Adonais," she might have 
been gifted from God to bring him at last to " repen- 
tance and a better mind." If Shelley had an inspira- 
tion from without, it was more than two thousand years 
old ; he was imbued essentially with Greek philosophy 
and learning ; and one may gather the best idea of the 
effect produced by the Greek tragedists upon the culti- 
vated Greek mind, by observing the effect of Shelley's 
poetry upon our own. 

" The Cloud" is a fine series of beautiful contrasts, 
poetizing the simplest phenomena of air and watery 
vapor ; while the verses " To a Skylark" are without a 
rival in the extremely limpid flow of the words.- In the 
lines, 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Eain-awakened flowers; — 

one can hear rain-drops and bird-singing, and memory 
supplies a pleasant fancy of the sweet perfume of hidden, 
" rain-awakened" violets. 

With the mention of Keats, comes an emotion of 
never-failing regret, that one who promised so much 
sliould die in the very heyday of hope and action. He 
has not left much in volume, but the little we have, 
overflowing with genius as it is, has enabled us to 



INTRODUCTION. xsv 

present to tlie reader, extracts full of soul and con- 
ceived in the best vein of poetic thought. His lines to 
" Autumn" are particularly vigorous and beautiful. 

It was for a long time the fashion to overrate Mrs. 
Hemans, and, for some years past, by a process of reac- 
tion, the critics have combined to depreciate her poetry. 
If there be another cause for this latter injustice, it is 
the coming in of that quaint school of Poetry, of which 
Wordsworth was the chief: the quietists, the mystics, 
the men who frown, by their example, at least, upon 
the joyous, the gay, and " the gushing" in verse. 

An American writer has attributed the popularity of 
another of our country's poets to his writing at and for 
the people, — " breast high," — to use his own phrase. 
Eminently does this apply to Mrs. Hemans. There is no 
age or Avalk in life that has not dwelt with delight upon 
her heart-verses. She has touched the chords of the 
human harp to every note of which it is capable, and 
she will Hve as long as love, and hope, and holy grief 
find sway in this chequered world of laughter and tears. 
Few persons can read " The Better Land," without at 
least recalling the emotions of childhood, and blending 
with them the sad experience of later years. 

Little need be said of Motherwell ; his life was 
sorrowful and short, and he seems to have been gifted 
as a poet only to sing his own death-song. 

Of Hood, the world knows more than of most con- 
temporary poets, because of the comic element in almost 
everything he wrote. But, to our mind, his pathos was 
better than his fun, and this is manifest from that most 
touching poem, " The Bridge of Sighs," which appears 
among our extracts. With the very perfection of pathos, 
what a noble lesson it contains : 



xxvi INTRODUCTION. 

"Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun !" 

Mr. Macaulay — we must beg his pardon that, as his 
fame was all achieved before his peerage, he can never 
be Lord Macaulay to us — ^lias given us, in the " Lays 
of Ancient Home," a beautiful and scholarly history of 
two periods in Roman history, — that to which the Lays 
refer, and of which they tell the story, and that in which 
they are supposed to be sung for the noble pui-pose of 
inciting the degenerate Homan people by the lofty ex- 
ample of their ancestors. Rich as are these poems in 
the flow of words, there are not wanting those who think 
Macaulay led astray by his own luxuriance into some- 
thing very like verbiage. The dictum of the world, the 
vox populi, hoAvever, has declared very fully in favor of 
the Lays, in spite of the dilettanti. We have introduced 
" The Prophecy of Capys" because of its real interest 
and excellence, and because it is less known than Hora- 
Tius and Virginia. 

Again in our list we reach a woman's name, but how 
unlike is its bearer to Mrs. Hemans. The one is a glad 
and genial companion in all the homes of humanity — 
the other, prophetess and pythoness, stands aloof from 
them all, at least in her bolder flights, and sings now 
of vulture-torn Prometheus, in numbers almost equal to 
^schylus, and again of the " Drama of Exile" from Para- 
dise, with all its horrors. Mrs. Browning stands alone 
in our literature. Her mind has been called masculine ; 
this is an error. It is not of necessity masculine to be 
vigorous and independent. No man could have written 
like her ; and this she seems to have designed to prove 



INTRODUCTION. xxvii 

in licr last poem, " Aurora Leigh." This poem is in 
reality the autobiography of just such a woman, who 
would place herself above man in point of will, if not 
of intellect. If Chaucer's " Wife of Bath" be a true 
woman, this is intensely womanish ; for " sovereignty 
over man" is her verdict of woman's desire. 

But as if to show how multiform her genius is, Mrs. 
Browning has left us some very delicate and touching 
poems, which are more to the general taste, because 
they come do^vn to the level of our common humanity : 
" Cowper's Grave" is a universal favorite ; and we com- 
mend most heartily " Loved Once," and " The Sleep." 
In " The Lady's Yes," she has gone out of herself to 
Avrite a simple little pleasantry, Avliich is amusing and 
charming. 

. So short is our space, that with Tennyson's honored 
name we close the list of English Poets. Perhaps he is 
the poet most difficult of criticism ; the one who in 
almost any promiscuous assembly would have an equal 
number of friends and enemies. This fact is in itself 
a clue to the philosophy of his writings. He is fanciful, 
rather than imaginative, and instead of writing to touch 
the great soul of humanity, has conceived fancies which 
are appreciated by the few instead of the many. To 
redeem this fault, he has the rarest powers of harmo- 
nious language, and invests these strange fancies in such 
a beautiful garb, that we are compelled to read and 
admire, in spite, sometimes, of our better judgment. 

It seems hard to compare the labors of years with a 
single short poem, evoked by a patriotic burst, but " The 
Charge of the Light Brigade" is a surer passport to im- 
mortahty than anything Tennyson has written. It has 



xxviii INTRODUCTION. 

immediately taken rank with Campbell's battle-pieces, 
and will remain among the finest productions of that 
class. There is a terrible truthfulness in his descrip- 
tion of that focus of convergent fire : 

" Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of theiu. 
Volleyed and thundered." 

First the volley, seen ; then the tliunder, heard ! No 
other words could express it ; and if so fine a passage 
can be excelled, it is surpassed by the concluding lines 
of that stanza, which absolutely move at " a charge," 
Avith all the accompaniments of steel, shot, smoke, and 
blood. 

" Stormed at with shot and shell, 

Boldly they rode and well. 

Into the jaws of Death, 

Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred." 

Perhaps the most difficult part of the problem of selec- 
tion was reached in the efi'ort to choose, among our Ame- 
rican poets, the few names for which there was room in 
our English gallery. Many there are, and we are proud 
to say it, who more than deserve the distinction ; and yet 
of those who are here, are not all equally meritorious 1 

Bryant is our great priest of Nature, whether Druid- 
like amid the groves, which he tells us were " God's first 
temples," or wandering in " the Past" to find " each tie of 
pure aff'ection," which the aching heart has mourned as 
,lost, or following the silent Zephyr in its balmy flight. 

Longfellow reminds us of his own " Singers," as from 



INTRODUCTION. ' xxix 

year to year he retouches his harp to a newer harmony, 
and a deeper lesson ; " wandering by streams," " singing 
in the market-place," anon, in " cathedrals dim and vast," 
everywhere he touches the heart, and strengthens the soul. 

And such too are the claims of Willis and Halleck ; 
heart-thoughts and lofty tone of sentiment mark their 
writings, and make them " household words" wherever 
they are known. 

But we must epitomize our golden opinions of the 
American poets with whose names our pages are en- 
riched: — Morris, whose nest is in the hearts of the 
people, wherever a lofty tree defies the woodman's axe, 
or our country's flag floats to tell of Union and strength ; 
— Holmes, " the Doctor," anatomist, microscopist, " auto- 
crat," but, best of all, poet, and by extension, moralist, 
teacher, satirist ; — Poe, intensely musical, his chimes, 
like his own Bells, constantly singing in " a sort of 
Runic rhyme," not always very intelligible, but haunt- 
ing the chambers of the brain " evermore !" 

BoKER is characterized by refined taste ; nor, ' as in 
many notable cases does this trammel his powers ; it 
serves rather as an elastic bond which gives greater come- 
liness of proportions to his genius. 

From the burdensome duties of the press. Prentice 
has stolen moments for sweet converse with the Muses, 
and is always melodious and flute-like. Simms stands, 
facile princeps, among the Southern poets ; and Judge 
Conrad is marked, perhaps, more than any American 
writer, by an impassioned fervor, which commends all 
he has written. Coxe is truly the poet of devotion and 
the Church. Each of his Christian ballads is a sermon, 
complete in all its parts. 



XXX INTRODUCTION. 

And this brings us naturally to one very pleasant 
thought, which shall be our last wave of the pen, by 
way of ushering our readers into the goodly company 
Avho stand waiting to receive them. 

It is remarkable as well as pleasant, that all the great 
works of Enghsh poetry are characterized by a high 
moral and devotional tone. From some beautiful cathe- 
dral window the painted light shoots through and around 
the forms of prophets and apostles, throwing upon co- 
lumn and cornice, chancel and altar, its many-colored 
radiance, staining alike with its gorgeous dyes the pea- 
sant's gaberdine and the rich man's velvet, as they kneel 
before a common God and Father. So in this vast 
cathedral of the poet-heart, the figures which shine in 
the oriel windows are laurelled poets, Hving apart from 
this working world, often martyrs to its scorn and apostles 
of good to its ignorant unbelief; and the light trans- 
mitted through their beautiful works shines upon an 
altar, and attracts worshippers by its beauty and its 
glory, — and that, too, is the altar of God ! 

This claim of English Literature, sterling English 
Literature, has never met with a counter claim else- 
where. France, Italy, Spain have marked their most 
gorgeous poems with infidelity, licentiousness, and super- 
stition; but England alone has found in her language 
and heart power to " purge off the baser fire victorious." 
Exceptions, few and rare, there are, where genius, 
like that of Byron, has left the unsightly insects and 
smaller reptiles of his envenomed fancy preserved for- 
ever in the pure and costly amber of his verse, but these 
exceptions only prove the rule. 

Chaucer inculcates pure morals and true piety ; his 



INTRODUCTION. 



coarseness is the fault of the age, as his characters are 
types of the times. 

Spenser is the poet of the Virtues, clad in robes of 
true sentiment and the armor of pure and undefiled 
religion. 

Milton's flight is into the regions where ribaldry and 
license are unknown, or where they are eternally pun- 
ished. Wordsworth, the contemplative and pious poet, 
sought everywhere for God, and has imbued many hearts 
with a glorious enthusiasm for so ennobling a search. 

But why need we enumerate '? CoAvper, Thomson, 
Southey, aye, even Byron, in his better self, — all great 
English poets, like the pure minstrel sent to sing in 
"hall," or "camp," or "grove," are, like him, God's 
singers, sent on a prophet's errand, to teach men love, 
and mercy, and hope. 

Of the fact here stated, our various extracts afford 
abundant proof; and although the volume is radiant 
with poetic genius, and sumptuous with the adornments of 
tasteful Art, this is its chief claim to our readers' notice 
and regard. With this, then, its crowning commenda- 
tion, we leave it cheerfully in their hands. 

H. C. 

Philadelphia, August 10, 1858. 




THOMSON. 



SYMN ON THE SEASONS. 



These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God, The rolling Year 
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
Thy Beauty walks, thy Tenderness and Love. 

5 



34 



THOMSON. 




Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
And every sense, and every heart is joy. 
Then comes thy Glory in the Summer-months, 
With Hght and heat refulgent. Then thy Sun 
Shoots full perfection through the swelling Year : 
And oft thy Voice in dreadful thunder speaks : 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. 
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 
Thy Bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In Winter awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled. 
Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 



HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 35 

Riding sublime, Thou bidst the World adore, 
And humblest Nature with thy northern blast. 

Mysterious round ! what skill, what force Divine, 
Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
Yet so delightfal mixed, with such kind art. 
Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; 
And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 
That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
But wandering oft, with brute, unconscious gaze, 
Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty Hand, 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
AVorks in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
'Jlie fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring : 
Flings from the Sun direct the flaming Day ; 
Feeds every creature ; hurls the Tempest forth ; 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
With transport touches all the springs of life. 

Nature, attend ! join, every living Soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 
In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 
One general Song ! To Him, ye vocal gales. 
Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes : 
Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms ! 
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
Who shake the astonished world, lift high to Heaven 
The impetuous song,. and say from whom you rage. 
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
And let me catch it as I muse along. 
Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound ; 



3G 



THOMSON. 



Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 

Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 

A secret world of wonders in thyself, 

Sound His stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 

Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers. 

In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts. 

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 




Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave, to Him ; 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as earth asleep 



HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 37 

Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 

Yc Constellations, while your angels strike. 

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 

Great source of day ! best image here below 

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 

From world to world, the vital ocean round, 

On Nature write Avith every beam His praise. 

The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate world : 

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn Hymn. 

Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, 

Retain the sound : the broad responsive low. 

Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns 

And His unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 

Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless Song 

Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day. 

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 

Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 

The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 

Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 

At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all. 

Crown the great Hymn ; in swarming cities vast. 

Assembled Men, to the deep organ join 

The long-resounding voice, oft-breaking clear. 

At solemn pauses, through the swelling base ; 

And, as each mingling flame increases each, 

In one united ardor rise to Heaven. 

Or if you rather choose the rural shade. 

And find a fane in every sacred grove ; 

There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. 

Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll ! 

For me, when I forget the darling theme, 



38 



THOMSON. 



Whether the Blossom blows, the Summer-ray 
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, 




Or Winter rises in the blackening east. 

Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more, 

And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 

Should Fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. 
Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me 
Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
In the void waste as in the city full ; 



HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 



39 



And where He vital spreads there must be joy. 
When even at last the solemn Hour shall come, 
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, 
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and aU their sons ; 
From seeming Evil still educing Good, 
And better thence again, and better still, 
In infinite progression. But I lose 
Myself .in Him, in Light inefiable ! 
Come, then, expressive Silence, muse His praise. 




40 THOMSON. 



ON A COUNTRY LIFE. 

I HATE the clamors of the smoky towns, 

But much admire the bhss of rural clowns ; 

Where some remains of innocence appear, 

Where no rude noise insults the hstening ear ; 

Nought but soft zephyrs whispering through the trees, 

Or the still humming of the painful bees ; 

The gentle murmurs of a purling rill, 

Or the unwearied chirping of the drill ; 

The charming harmony of warbling birds, 

Or hollow lowings of the grazing herds ; 

The murmuring stockdoves' melancholy coo, 

When they their loved mates lament or woo ; 

The pleasing bleatings of the tender lambs, 

Or the indistinct mum'Hng of their dams ; 

The musical discord of chiding hounds, 

Whereto the echoing hill or rock resounds ; 

The rural mournful songs of lovesick swains, 

Whereby they soothe their raging amorous pains ; 

The whisthng music of the lagging plough, 

Which does the strength, of drooping beasts renew. 

And as the country rings with pleasant sounds. 
So with delightful prospects it abounds : 
Through every season of the sUding year. 
Unto the ravished sight new scenes appear. 

In the sweet Spring the sun's prohfic ray 
Does painted flowers to the mild air display ; 



ON A COUNTllY LIFE. 



41 




Then opening buds, then tender herbs, are seen. 
And the bare fields are all arrayed in green. 

In ripening Summer, the full laden vales 
Gives prospect of employment for the flails ; 
Each breath of wind the bearded groves makes bend, 
Which seems the fatal sickle to portend. 

In Autumn, that repays the laborer's pains, 
Reapers sweep down the honors of the plains. 

Anon black Winter, from the frozen north, 
Its treasuries of snow and hail pours forth ; 
Then stormy winds blow through the hazy sky, 
In desolation nature seems to lie ; 

6 



42 THOMSON, 

The unstained snow from the full clouds descends, 

Whose sparkling lustre open eyes offends. 

In maiden white the glittering fields do shine ; 

Then bleating flocks for want of food repine, 

With withered eyes they see all snow around, 

And with their fore feet paw and scrape the ground : 

They cheerfully crop the insipid grass. 

The shepherds sighing, cry, Alas ! alas ! 

Then pinching want the wildest beast does tame ; 

Then huntsmen on the snow do trace their game; 

Keen frost then turns the liquid lakes to glass. 

Arrests the dancing rivulets as they pass. 

HoAV sweet and innocent are country sports. 
And, as men's tempers, various are their sorts. 

You, on the banks of soft meandering Tweed, 
May in your toils ensnare the watery breed, 
And nicely lead the artificial flee, 
Which, when the nimble, watchful trout does see. 
He at the bearded hook will briskly spring ; 
Then in that instant twieth your hairy string. 
And, Avhen he's hooked, you, with a constant hand. 
May draw him struggling to the fatal land. 

Then at fit seasons you may clothe your hook 
With a sweet bait, dressed by a faithless cook ; 
The greedy pike darts to't with eager haste, 
And being struck, in vain he flies at last ; 
He rages, storms, and flounces through the stream. 
But all, alas ! his life cannot redeem. 

At other times you may pursue the chase. 
And hunt the nimble hare from place to place. 
See, when the dog is just upon the grip. 
Out at a side she'll make a handsome skip, 



ON A COUNTRY LIFE. 43 

And ere he can divert his furious course, 

She, far before him, scours with all her force : 

She'll shift, and many times run the same ground; 

At last, outwearied by the stronger hound, 

She falls a sacrifice unto his hate. 

And with sad piteous screams laments her fate. 

See how the hawk doth take his towering flight, 
And in his course outflies our very sight. 
Bears down the fluttering fowl with all his might. 

See how the wary gunner casts about, 
"Watching the fittest posture Avhen to shoot: 
Quick as the fatal lightning blasts the oak, 
He gives the springing fowl a sudden stroke ; 
He pours upon 't a shower of mortal lead. 
And ere the noise is heard the fowl is dead. 

Sometimes he spreads his hidden subtile snare, 
Of which the entangled fowl was not aware ; 
Through pathless wastes he doth pursue his sport, 
Where nought but moor-fowl and wild beasts resort. 

When the noon sun directly darts his beams 
Upon your giddy heads, with fiery gleams, 
Then you may bathe yourself in cooling streams ; 
Or to the sweet adjoining grove retire, 
Where trees with interwoven boughs conspire 
To form a grateful shade ; — there rural swains 
Do tune their oaten reeds to rural strains ; 
The silent birds sit listening on the sprays. 
And in soft charming notes do imitate their lays. 
There you may stretch yourself upon the grass, 
And, lulled -svith music, to kind slumbers pass : 
No meagre cares your fancy will distract, 
And on that scene no tragic fears will act ; 



44 



THOMSON. 



Save the dear image of a charming she, 
Nought will the object of your vision be. 

AAvay the vicious pleasures of the town ; 
Let empty partial fortune on me frown ; 
But grant, ye powers, that it may be my lot 
To live in peace from noisy towns remote. 




COLLINS. 

ODE TO EVENING. 

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, 

Like thy own brawling springs, 

Thy springs, and dying gales ; 

O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun, 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, 

With brede ethereal woA'e^ 

O'erhang his wavy bed : 

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat 
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing ; 

Or where the beetle Avinds 

His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path. 
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : 

Now teach me, maid composed, 

To breathe some softened strain, 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial loved return ! 



46 



COLLINS. 



For when thy folding-star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 
The fragrant Hours, and Elves 
"Who slept in buds the day. 




And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge. 
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still. 

The pensive Pleasures sweet. 

Prepare thy shadowy car. 



Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene ; 
Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells. 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 



ODE TO EVENING. 47 

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, 
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut. 

That, from the mountain's side, 

Views wilds, and swelling floods. 

And hamlets broAvn, and dim-discovered spires ; 
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all 

Thy dewy fingers draw. 

The gradual dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont. 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve ! 

While Summer loves to sport 

Beneath thy lingering light ; 

While salloAV Autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; 
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, 

Afirights thy shrinking train, 

And rudely rends thy robes ; 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 

Thy gentlest influence own, 

And love thy favorite name ! 



48 COLLINS. 



DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 

But shepherd lads assemble here, 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No withered witch shall here be seen ; 

No goblins lead their nightly crew : 
The female fays shall haunt the green, 

And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 

The redbreast oft, at evening hours. 
Shall kindly lend his little aid, 

"With hoary moss, and gathered flowers. 
To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

"When howling winds, and beating rain. 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell ; 

Or 'midst the chase, on every plain. 

The tender thought on thee shall dwell ; 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore ; 

For thee the tear be duly shed ; 
Beloved till life can charm no more. 

And mourned till Pity's self be dead. 





GEAY. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 



The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

7 



50 GRAY. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinldings lull the distant folds : 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 



Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw^built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or^the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 



Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the Avoods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 



THE ELECxY. 



51 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 



The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gav 

Await ahke the inevitable hour: 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 




Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 



52 GRAY. 

Can storied um, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath'? 

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death t. 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear : 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its SAveetness on the desert air. 



Some viUage-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some CromAvell guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 



THE ELEGY. 53 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to Avade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 



Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply : 
And many a holy text around she strews. 

To teach the rustic moralist to die. 



For who, to dumb forgetfiilness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind 1 



54 GRAY. 



On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 



For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, — 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland laAvn : 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his Avayward fancies he Avould rove ; 

Now drooping, woful-Avan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

" One morn I missed him on the customed hill. 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : 



THE ELEGY. 



" The next, Avith dirges due in sad array, 

Slow thro' the church-way path Ave saAv him home : 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 




THE EPITAPH. 



Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 



GRAY. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they ahke in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



THE BARD. 

" E,uiN seize thee, ruthless King ! 

Confusion on thy banners wait ! 
Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, 

They mock the air with idle state. 
Helm, nor hauberk's tAvisted mail, 
Nor ev'n thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears. 

From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !" 
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride 

Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay. 
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 

He wound with toilsome march his long array. 
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance : 
" To arms !" cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering- 
lance. 



THE BARD. 57 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 

Robed in the sable garb of woe, 
With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; 
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) 
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, 
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 

" Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave. 
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! 
O'er thee, oh King ! their hundred arms they wave, 

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; 
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day. 
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 

" Cold is Cadwallo's tongue. 

That hushed the stormy main : 
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : 

Mountains, ye mourn in vain 

Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Phnlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. 

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 
Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale : 
Far, far aloof th' afirighted ravens sail. 

The famished eagle screams, and passes by. 
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. 

Dear as the hght that visits these sad eyes. 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart. 

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — 
No more I weep. They do not sleep. 

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, 
I see them sit, they linger yet. 

Avengers of their native land: 



58 ■ GRAY. 

With me in dreadful harmony they join, 

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 

" Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 
The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 

Give ample room, and verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 
Mark the year, and mark the night. 
When Severn shall re-echo with affright 
The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roof that ring, 
Shrieks of an agonizing king ! 

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, 
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 

From thee be born, Avho o'er thy country hangs 
The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait ! 
Amazement in his van, with flight combined. 
And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind. 

" Mighty victor, mighty lord ! 
Low on his funeral couch he lies ! 

No pitying heart, no eye, aff'ord 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 

Is the sable warrior fled ] 
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 
The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born 1 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway. 
That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. 



THE BARD. 59 

" Fill high the sparkling boAvl, 
The rich repast prepare ; 

K.eft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : 
Close by the regal chair 

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 
Heard ye the din of battle bray, 

Lance to lance, and horse to horse 1 

Long years of havoc urge their destined course, 
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. 

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame. 
With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 

Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, 
And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 
Above, below, the rose of snow, 

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : 
The bristled boar in infant-gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 

" Edward, lo ! to sudden fate 
(Weave Ave the woof. The thread is spun.) 

Half of thy heart we consecrate. 
(The web is Avove. The Avork is done.) 
Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 
LeaA^e me imblessed, unpitied, here to mourn : 
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies. 
They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 
But oh ! Avhat solemn scenes on SnoAvdon's height 

Descending sIoav their ghttering skirts unroll'? 
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! 

Ye unborn ages, croAvd not on my soul ! 



60 GRAY. 

No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. 

All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail ! 

" Girt with many a baron bold 
Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 
In the midst a form divine ! 
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line ; 
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face. 
Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. 
What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 

What strains of vocal transport round her play ! 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. 
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, 
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored wings, 

" Thy verse adorn again 

Fierce war, and faithful love, 
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. 

In buskined measures move 
Pale grief, and pleasing pain. 
With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 

A voice, as of the cherub-choir, 
Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 
And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 

That lost in long futurity expire. 
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 

Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day'? 
To-morroAV he repairs the golden flood. 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 



THE BARD. 



Gl 



Enough for me ; with joy I see 

The different doom our fates assign. 




Be thine despair, and sceptred care ; 
To triumph, and to die, are mine." 
He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 



10 




GOLDSMITH. 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed : 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



G3 



Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ! 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 







How often have I paused on every charm. 

The sheltered cot, the cultiA^ated farm. 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 

The decent church that topt the neighboring hill. 



64 GOLDSMITH. 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talkmg age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train, from labor free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree : 

While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown. 

By holding out, to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these. 

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed. 

These were thy charms, — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, lovehest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; . 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 65 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembhng, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far aAvay thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
When every rood of ground maintained its man ; 
For him light labor spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 
His best companions, innocence and health. 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered : trade's unfeeling train 

Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : 

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. 

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 

And every want to opulence allied ; 

And every pang that folly pays to pride. 

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 

Those calm desires that asked but little room. 

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 

Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; 

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 

And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

11 



C6 GOLDSMITH. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,- 
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I stiU had hopes, my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes — for pride attends us still- — 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she fiew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return, — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement ! friend to life's decline. 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine. 
How happy he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



67 



No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend. 
Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, 
"While Resignation gently slopes the way — 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 




Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 



C8 GOLDSMITH. 

There, as I passed Avith careless steps and slow. 

The mingling notes came softened from below ; 

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ; 

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 

The playfril children just let loose from school ; 

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind — 

These all in sweet confrision sought the shade. 

And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 

But now the sounds of population fail. 

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread. 

But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 

All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 

She, wretched matron — forced in age, for bread. 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn — 

She only left of all the harmless train, 

The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower groAVS Avild — 
There, Avhere a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
The A'illage preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he Avas to all the country dear ; 
And passing rich Avith forty pounds a year. 
Remote from toAvns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor Avished to change, his place ; 
Unpractised he to faAvn, or seek for poAver, 
By doctrines fasliioned to the varying hour ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. GO 

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize — 
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but reheved their pain : 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe : 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
And even his faihngs leaned to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged ofi'spring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
AUured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control. 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembUng wretch to raise. 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

12 



70 



GOLDSMITH. 



At church, with meek and uhafFectecl grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 




The service past, around the pious man. 

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 

Even children folloAved, with endearing wile. 

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Tl 

Ilis ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest ; 

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given. 

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 

As some tall cliff, that Hfts its awful form, 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 
Tliere, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee. 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; 
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
Tlie love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew ; 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
And even the story ran that he could gauge ; 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. 
For even though vanquished he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length and thundering sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around — 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. 
That one small head could carrv all he knPAV. 



72 



GOLDSMITH. 




But past is all his fame. The very spot, 
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
Low lies that house Avhere nut-brown draughts inspired. 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired. 
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound. 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 73 

The whitcwasliecl wall, the nicely sanded floor, 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of draAvers by day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
The. twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day. 
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; 
While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall 1 
Obscure it sinks ; nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Eelax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half-wiUing to be prest. 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 

13 



74 GOLDSMITH. 

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 

Uncnvied, unmolested, unconfined; 

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 

With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, — 

In these, ere triilers half their Avish obtain, 

The toiling pleasure sickens into pain: 

And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 

The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. 
And rich men flock from all tRe world around. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name, 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds. 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; 
Around the world each needful product flies. 
For all the luxuries the Avorld supplies ; 
"While thus the land, adorned for pleasure — all 
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 75 

As some fair female, unadornccl and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past, — for charms are frail, — 
When time advances, and Avhen lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, sohcitous to bless. 
In all the glaring impotence of dress ; 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed : 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed — 
But, A^erging to decline, its splendors rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
AVhile, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride 1 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 
If to the city sped, what waits him there 1 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin manldnd ; 
To see those joys the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creature's Avoe. 
Here Avhile the courtier glitters in brocade. 
There the pale artist ])lies the sickly trade ; 



7G GOLDSMITH. 

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 

The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 

Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts 1 Ah ! turn thine eyes 

Where the poor houseless shivering female Kes. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 

Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled — 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. 

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 

She left her Avheel, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the lovehest train, 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain 1 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 

Ah, no ! To distant cHmes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charmed before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 7T 

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey — 
And savage men more murderous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far difi"erent these from every former scene. 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green. 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, 
That called them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 
And took a long farcAvell, and wished in vain 
For seats hke these beyond the western main ; 
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, . 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep ! 
The good old sire, the first, prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 

14 



18 GOLDSMITH. 

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for a father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear ;. 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O Luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land : 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
Downward they move — a melancholy band — 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
And piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 79 

And thou, sweet Poetry ! thou lovehcst maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame — 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
My shame in croAvds, my sohtary pride — 
Thou source of all my bhss and all my woe. 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so — 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. 
Thou nurse of every virtue — fare thee well ! 
Farewell ; and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Tornea's clifi's, or Pambamarca's side. 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow. 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Pedress the rigors of the inclement clime : 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength posscst. 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



80 



GOLDSMITH. 



^ 




RETALIATION. 



Of old, when Scarrdn his companions invited, 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; 
If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, 
Let each guest bring himself — and he brings the best dish ; 
Our dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; 
Our Will shall be wildfowl, of excellent flavor, 
And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the savor ; 



RETALIATION. 81 

Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain, 
And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
Our Garrick's a salad — for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am 
That Eidge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb ; 
That Hickey's a capon, and, by the same rule. 
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool, 
At a dinner so various, at such a repast, 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last 1 
Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able. 
Till all my companions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. 
Let me ponder — and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good dean, reunited to earth. 
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth: 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, — 
At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. 
Though fraught with aU. learning, yet straining his throat 
To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote ; ' 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining : 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 
Too nice for a statesman; too proud for a wit ; 

15 



82 GOLDSMITH. 

For a patriot too cool • for a drudge disobedient ; 
And too fond of the rigid to pursue the expedient. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, 
While the OAvner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam — 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : 
Would you ask for his merits '? alas ! he had none ; 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 

Here lies honest E-ichard, whose fate I must sigh at ; 
Alas that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
Now breaking a jest — and now breaking a limb ; 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball ; 
Now teasing and vexing — yet laughing at all ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick ; 
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein. 
As often we wished to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine. 
And comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out. 
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout. 



RETALIATION. 83 

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; 
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught, 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault "? 
Say, was it that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. 
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax — 
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : 
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines. 
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant recHnes ; 
When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
I feared for your safety, I feared for my own ; 
But now he is gone, and we want a detector. 
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture ; 
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style ; 
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile : 
New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over. 
No countryman living their tricks to discover ; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark. 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. 

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can. 
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine, 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
The man had his failings — a dupe to his art. 



84 GOLDSMITH. 

Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread, 

And beplastered with rouge his own natural red. 

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 

'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. 

With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 

He turned and he varied full ten times a day ; 

Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 

If they were not his own by finessing and trick. 

He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. 

For he knew, when he pleased, he could whistle them 

back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, 
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, 
"Who peppered the highest was surest to please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind. 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
Ye Kenricks, ye Kelly s, and Woodfalls so grave, 
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! 
How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised, 
While he was be-Eosciused and you were bepraised ! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies. 
Those poets who owe their, best fame to his skill, 
Shall stiU be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, 
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature. 
And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
He cherished his friend, and he reHshed a bumper ; 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 



RETALIATION. 



85 



Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ] 

I answer, No, no — for he always was wiser ; 

Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly fiat 1 

His very worst foe can't accuse him of that ; 

Perhaps he confided in men as they go. 

And so was too foolishly honest T Ah, no ! 

Then what was his failing"? come, tell it, and burn ye — 

He was — could he help it 1 — a special attorney. 




Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind. 

IG 



86 GOLDSMITH. 

His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; 

His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 

Still born to improve us in every part — 

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering. 

When they judged without skill, he was stiU hard of 

hearing : 
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and 

stuff. 
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. 



BEATTIE. 




MORNINa LANDSCAPE. 



Eyen now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, 
As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, 

Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, 
Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, 
A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are born. 



BEATTIE. 

But who the melodies of morn can tell "? 

The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; 
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; 

The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 

In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 

The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, 
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 

The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ; 

Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings ; 
The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, hark ! 

Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings ; 

Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ; 
Slow tolls th6 village-clock the drowsy hour ; 

The partridge bursts aAvay on whirring wings ; 
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower. 
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 



THE HERMIT. 



At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove. 

When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill. 
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove; — 



TTTE HERMIT. 



89 



'Twas thus, by tlic cave of the mountain afar, 

While his heart rung symphonious, a hermit began : 

No more with himself or with Nature at war, 
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. 




" Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, 

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ^ 
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral: 
But, if pity inspire thee, reneAV the sad lay. 

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn ; 
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away : 

Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 

17 



90 BEATTIE. 

" Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, 

The moon half extinguished her crescent displays ; 
But lately I marked, when majestic on high 

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 

The path that conducts thee to splendor again ; 
But man's faded glory what change shall renew '? 

Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

" 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; 

I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, 

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with 
dew : 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 

Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save. 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! 

O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ! 

" 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed. 

That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind; 
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
' O pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried, 

' Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee ; 
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride : 

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free !' 

" And darkness and doubt are now flying away. 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn: 
So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,' 

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 



THE SAGE. 91 



See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, 
And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 

On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, 
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 



THE SAGE. 

At early dawn the youth his journey took. 

And many a mountain passed and valley wide, 
Then reached the wild where, in a flowery nook, 

And seated on a mossy stone, he spied 
An ancient man ; his harp lay him beside. 

A stag sprung from the pasture at his call. 
And, kneeling, licked the withered hand that tied 

A vnreath of woodbine round his antlers tall, 
And hung his lofty neck with many a floweret small. 



COWPER 




-^is^^gg; 



RUEAL SOUNDS. 



NoE rural sights alone, but rural sounds 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds 
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 



RURAL SOUNDS. 93 

Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
The clasli of ocean on his Avinding shore, 
And hill the spirit while they fill the mind, — 
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast. 
And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once. 
Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 
Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they fall 
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
In matted grass, that with a livelier green 
Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
Nature inanimate displays sweet sounds. 
But animated nature sweeter still. 
To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
The livelong night ; nor these alone whose notes 
Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain. 
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
In still-repeated circles, screaming loud, — 
The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl 
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh. 
Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns. 
And only there, please highly for their sake. 



18 



94 COWPER. 



LOVE OF NATUllE. 



'Tis born witli all : the love of Nature's works 

Is an ingredient in the compound man, 

Infused at the creation of the kind. 

And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout 

Discriminated each from each, by strokes 

And touches of his hand, with so much art 

Diversified, that two were never found 

Twins at all points— yet this obtains in all, 

That all discern a beauty in his works. 

And all can taste them : minds, that have been formed 

And tutored with a relish, more exact, 

But none without some relish, none unmoved. 

It is a flame that dies not even there, 

Where nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds. 

Nor habits of luxurious city-hfe. 

Whatever else they smother of true worth 

In human bosoms, quench it or abate. 

The villas with which London stands begirt. 

Like a swarth Indian Avith his belt of beads, 

Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air. 

The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer 

The citizen, and brace his languid frame ! 

Even in the stifling bosom of the town, 

A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms 

That soothe the rich possessor ; much consoled 

That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, 

Of nightshade or valerian, grace the wall 

He cultivates. These serve him with a hint 

That Nature lives ; that sight-refreshing green 



LOVE OP NATURE. 95 

Is still the livery she delights to wear, 

Though sicldy samples of the exuberant whole. 

What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, 

The prouder sashes fronted with a range 

Of orange, myrtle, or the firagrant weed, 

The Frenchman's darling 1 Are they not all proofs 

That man, immured in cities, still retains 

His inborn inextinguishable thirst 

Of rural scenes, compensating his loss 

By supplemental shifts the best he may 1 

The most unfurnished Avith the means of life, 

And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds 

To range the fields and treat their lungs with air, 

Yet feel the burning instinct ; over-head 

Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick. 

And watered duly. There the pitcher stands 

A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there ; 

Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets 

The country, with what ardor he contrives 

A peep at Nature, when he can no more. 

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease ; 
And contemplation, heart-consohng joys 
And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode 
Of multitudes unknown ; hail, rural life ! 
Address himself who will to the pursuit 
Of honors, or emolument, or fame, 
I shall not add myself to such a chase. 
Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. 
Some must be great. Great offices will have 
Great talents. And God gives to every man 
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste. 
That lifts him into life, and lets him fall 
Just in the niche he was ordained to fill. 



96 



COWPER. 



To the deliverer of an injured land 
He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart 
To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs ; 
To monarchs dignity ; to judges sense; 
To artists ingenuity and skill ; 
To me an unambitious mind, content 
In the low vale of life, that early felt 
A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long- 
Found here that leisure and that ease I wished. 




LINES. 



97 




LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 



Oh that tliose lips had language ! Life has passed 

With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 

Those Kps are thine — thy own sweet smiles I see, 

The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 

Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, 

" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" 

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 

(Blest be the art that can immortalize. 

The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim 

To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
O welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 

19 



98 COWPER. 

Who bidd'st me honor, with an artless song 

Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

I will obey, not wilHngly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her own : 

And while that face renews my fihal grief, 

Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief; 

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed 1 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
"Wretch even then, life's journey just begun "? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such "? It was. Where thou art gone, 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more ! 
Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of a quick return : 
What ardently I wished I long believed. 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived; 
By disappointment every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, aU my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot. 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 



LINES. 99 

Where once wc dwelt our name is heard no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the pubhc way. 
Delighted Avith my bauble coach, and wrapt 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 
'Tis noAV become a history little known, 
That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there. 
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 
A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. 
The biscuit or confectionary plum ; 
The fragrant waters- on my cheeks bestowed 
By thy own. hand, till fresh they shone and glowed : 
All this, and more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. 
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks. 
That humor interposed too often makes ; 
All this, still legible in memory's page. 
And still to be so to my latest age. 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin. 



100 COWPER. 

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile). 
Could those few pleasant hours again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ■? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear dehght 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no — what here we call our life is such. 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
• Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed). 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile. 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ;" 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life, long since, has anchored at thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always distressed — 
Me hoAvling Avinds drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 



A COMPARISON. 101 

But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 
And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run 
liis wonted course, yet Avhat I wished is done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have hved my childhood o'er again : 
To have renewed the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And, while the wings of fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe mc left. 



A COMPARISON. 

The lapse of time and rivers is the same, 

Both speed their journey with a restless stream ; 

The silent pace with which they steal away, 

No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay ; 

Alike irrevocable both when past, 

And a wide ocean swallows both at last. 

Though each resemble each in every part, 

A difference strikes at length the musing heart : 

Streams never flow in vain ; where streams abound, 

How laughs the land with various plenty crowned ! 

But time, that should enrich the nobler mind. 

Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind, 

20 




PxSdi^J' fiim^- ^,J~~^ 



BURNS. 



TAM 0' SHANTEK. 



When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak' the gate ; 



TAM 0' SOANTER. 103 

While we sit bousing at tlie nappy, 
An' gettin' fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hame. 
Where sits our sulky suUen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 

As he ftae Ayr ae night did canter, 

(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 

For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise. 

As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 

A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum, 

That frae November till October, 

Ae market-day thou wasna sober ; 

That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 

That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 

The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 

That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 

Thou drank wi' Kir ton Jean till Monday. 

She prophesied, that late or soon. 

Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon : 

Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, 

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet. 
To think how mony counsels sweet. 



104 BURNS. 

How mony lengthened sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 
But to our tale : — Ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither ! 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And ay the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious ; 
Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle — 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy ! 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 
Or like the snow falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever ; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 105 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; 

The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 

And sic a night he taks the road in 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; 
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed ; 
That night, a child might understand. 
The De'il had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire. 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round Avi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was draAving nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.^ — 
By this time he Avas cross the foord, 
Whare in the snaAV the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane. 
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And through the whins, and by the cairn. 
Where hunters fand the murdered bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the Avell, 
Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'. 

21 



106 BURNS. 

Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubhng storm roars through the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
"When, glimmering through the groaning trees, 
Kirk-AUoway seemed in a bleeze ; 
Through ilka bore the beams were glancing ; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn ! 

"What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil ! 

The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, 

Fair play, he cared nae deils a boddle. 

But Maggie stood right sair astonished, 

Till, by the heel and hand admonished, 

She ventured forward on the light ; 

And wow ! Tam saw an unco sight ; 

Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 

Put life and mettle in their heels ; 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 

A towsie tyke, black, grim, and large. 

To gie them music was his charge ; 

He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl. 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 

Coffins stood romid, like open presses. 

That shawed the dead in their last dresses ; 

And by some devilish cantrip slight 

Each in its cauld hand held a light — 



TAM 0' SHANTEK. 107 

By which heroic Tarn Avas able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-long, wee, unchristened bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft : 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowT'd, amazed and curious, 

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 

The piper loud and louder blew ; 

The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 

They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit. 

Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 

And coost her duddies to the wark, 

And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tam, O Tam ! had thae been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen, 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles. 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 



108 BURNS. 

But withered beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a cummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenned what was what fu' brawlie, 
There was a winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenned on Carrick shore ; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perished mony a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear. 
And kept the country-side in fear.) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn. 
That, while a lassie, she had worn. 
In longitude though sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. 

Ah ! little kenned thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang,) 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched. 
And thought his very een enriched ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain. 
And botched and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 



TAM 0' SHANTER. 



109 



And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion saUied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 

"When plundering herds assail their byke ; 

As open pussie's mortal foes, 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 

As eager runs the market-crowd. 

When " Catch the thief !" resounds aloud ; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 




22 



110 BURNS. 

Ah, Tarn ! Ah, Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin' ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a hemn' ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the keystane of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross ! 
But ere the keystane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie pressed. 
And flew at Tarn Avi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle— 
Ae sgring brought oif her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think ! ye may buy the joys o'er dear — 
Eemember Tam o' Shanter's niare. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 



Ill 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN". 

When chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 

One evening as I wandered forth 
Along the banks of Ayr, 



\ 




I spied a man whose aged step 
Seemed weary, worn with care ; 

His face was furrowed o'er Avith years, 
And hoary was his hair. 



112 BURNS. 

" Young stranger, wliither wand'rest thour' 

Began tlie rev'rend sage ; 
" Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage '? 
Or haply, pressed with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast hegan 
To wander forth, with me to mourn 

The miseries of man. 



" The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Outspreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labor to support 

A haughty lordling's pride : 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return, 
And every time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

" O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law. 

That man was made to mourn. 

" Look not alone on youthful prime. 
Or manhood's active might ; 

Man then is useful to his kind, 
Supported in hj^ right : 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 113 

But see him on the edge of hfe, 

With cares and sorrows worn ; 
Then age and want — oh ! ill-matched pair ! — 

Show man was made to mourn. 

" A few seem favorites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap caressed : 
Yet, think not aU the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 

All wretched and forlorn ! 
Through weary life this lesson learn — 

That man was made to mourn. 

" Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed stiU we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

" See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

23 



114 BURNS. 

" If I'm designed yon lordling's slave — 

By Nature's law designed — 
"Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind "? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn 'i 
Or why has man the wiU and power 

To make his fellow mourn 1 

" Yet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the best ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

" O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend- 

The kindest and the best ! 
"Welcome the hour, my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ! 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn." 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 



115 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 



Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thon nsher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ] 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ] 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast"? 




That sacred hour can I forget. 
Can I forget the hallowed grove, 

Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
To live one day of parting love 1 



IIG BURNS. 

Eternity cannot efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last emhrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wildwoods, thick'ning green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twined am'rous round the raptured scene ; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, 

The birds sang love on every spray — 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but th' impression stronger makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest 1 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid "? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast '? 







ROGERS. 

COLL' ALTO. 



" In this neglected mirror (the broad frame 
Of massy silver serves to testify 
That many a noble matron of the house 
Has sat before it) once, alas, was seen 

24 



118 ROGERS. 

What led to many sorrows. From that time 

Tlie bat came hither for a sleeping-place ; . 

And he, that cursed another in his heart, 

Said, ' Be thy dwelling, through the day and night, 

Shunned like Coll' alto.' " — 'Twas in that old Pile, 

Which flanks the cliif with its gray battlements 

Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest, 

Hangs in the Teeyisan, that thus the Steward, 

Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left, 

Addressed me, as we entered what was called 

" My Lady's Chamber." On the walls, the chairs, 

Much yet remained of the rich tapestry ; 

Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot 

In the green glades of some enchanted wood. 

The toilet-table was of silver wrought, 

Florentine Art, when Florence was renowned ; 

A gay confusion of the elements, 

Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers ; 

And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage, 

Hung a small bird of curious workmanship, 

That, when his mistress bade him, would unfold 

(So says the babbhng Dame, Tradition, there) 

His emerald- wings, and sing and sing again 

The song that pleased her. While I stood and looked, 

A gleam of day yet lingering in the west, 

The Steward went on. " She had ('tis noAV long since) 

A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristine, 

Fair as a lily, and as spotless too ; 

None so admired, beloved. They had grown up 

As play-fellows ; and some there were, that said. 

Some that knew much, discoursing of Cristine, 

' She is not what she seems.' When unrequired,. 



COLL' ALTO. 110 

She would steal forth ; her custom, her delight, 
To wander through and through an ancient grove 
Self-planted half-way down, losing herself 
Like one in love with sadness ; and her veil 
And vesture white, seen ever in that place, 
Ever as surely as the hours came round, 
Among those reverend trees, gave her below 
The name of The White Lady. But the day 
Is gone, and I delay thee. 

In that chair 
The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting, 
The gentle serving-maid, the fair Gristine, 
Combing her golden hair ; and through this door 
The Count, her lord, was hastening, called away 
By letters of great urgency to Venice ; 
When in the glass she saw, as she believed 
('Twas an illusion of the Evil One — 
Some say he came and crossed it at the time) 
A smile, a glance at parting, given and answered. 
That turned her blood to gaU. That very night 
The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon 
Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf 
Baying as still he does (oft is he heard, 
An hour or more, by the old turret clock). 
They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristine, 
Helping her down in her distress — to die. 

" No blood was spilt ; no instrument of death 
Lurked — or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose ; 
Nor was a hair of her unblemished head 
Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a floAver just blown, 
And warm with Hfe, her youthful pulses playing. 
She was waUed up within the Castle waU. 



120 ROGERS. 

The wall itself was hollowed secretly ; 
Then closed again, and done to line and rule. 

"Would'st thou descend 1 'Tis in a darksome vault 

Under the Chapel : and there nightly now, 
As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair. 
And as if nothing had been done or thought, 




The stone-work rose before her, till the light 
GUmmered and went — there nightly at that hour, 
(Thou smil'st, and would it were an idle tale !) 
In her white veil and vesture Avhite she stands 
Shuddering — her eyes uplifted, and her hands 
Joined as in prayer ; then like a Blessed Soul 
Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away 
Flies o'er the woods and mountains. Issuing forth, 
The hunter meets her in his hunting-track; 
The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims 
(For stiU she bears the name she bore of old) 
' 'Tis the White Lady !' " 



THE BRIDES OF VENICE. 121 



THE BRIDES OF VENICE. 

It was St. Mary's Eve, and all poured forth 

As to some grand solemnity. The fisher 

Came from his islet, bringing o'er the Avaves 

His wife and little one ; the husbandman 

From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta, 

Crowding the common ferry. All arrived ; 

And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened. 

So great the stir in Venice. Old and young 

Thronged her three hundred bridges ; the grave Turk, 

Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, 

In yellow hat and threadbare gaberdine. 

Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, 

The noblest sons and daughters of the state. 

They of Patrician birth,, the flower of Venice, 

Whose names are written in the Book of Gold, 

Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. 

At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd, 
Kising and rolling on, announced their coming ; 
And never from the first was to be seen 
Such splendor or such beauty. Two and two 
(The richest tapestry unrolled before them), 
First came the Brides in aU. their lovehness ; 
Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids followed, 
Only less lovely, who behind her bore 
The precious caskets that within contained 
The doAvry and the presents. On she moved. 
Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand 
A fan that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers. 
Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, 

25 



122 ROGERS. 

Fell from beneath a starry diadem ; 

And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone, 

Rnby or diamond or dark amethyst ; 

A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath, 

AVreathing her gold brocade. 

Before the Church, 
That venerable structure now no more 
On the sea-brink, another train they met. 
No strangers, nor unlooked for ere they came, 
Brothers to some, still dearer to the rest ; 
Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, 
And, as he Avalked, with modest dignity 
Folding his scarlet mantle. At the gate 
They join ; and slowly up the bannered aisle 
Led by the choir, with due solemnity 
Range round the altar. In his vestments there 
The Patriarch stands ; and, while the anthem flows. 
Who can look on unmoved — the dream of years 
Just now fulfilling ! Here a mother weeps, 
Rejoicing in her daughter. There a son 
Blesses the day that is to make her his ; 
"While she shines forth through all her ornament. 
Her beauty heightened by her hopes and fears. 
At length the rite is ending. All fall down, 
All of all ranks ; and, stretching out his hands. 
Apostle-like, the holy man proceeds 
To give the blessing — not a stir, a breath ; 
When hark, a din of voices from without, 
And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle ! 
And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent, 
And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep. 
Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbaro, 



THE BRIDES OF VENICE. 123 

And his six brothers in their coats of steel, 
Are standing- on the threshold ! Statue-like, 
Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, 
Each with his sabre up, in act to strike ; 
Then, as at once recovering from the spell, 
Rush forward to the altar, and as soon 
Are gone again — amid no clash of arms 
Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. 

Where are they now 1 — ploughing the distant waves, 
Their sails outspread and given to the wind. 
They on their decks triumphant. On they speed. 
Steering for Istria ; their accursed barks 
(Well are they known, the galliot and the galley) 
Freighted, alas, with all that life endears ! 
The richest argosies were poor to them ! 

Now hadst thou seen along that crowded shore 
The matrons running, wild, their festal dress 
A strange and moving contrast to their grief; 
And through the city, wander where thou wouldst, 
The men half armed and arming — everywhere 
As roused from slumber by that stirring trump ; 
One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; 
One with an axe severing in two the chain 
Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, 
But on that day was drifting. In an hour 
Half Venice was afloat. But long before. 
Frantic with grief and scorning all control, 
The Youths were gone in a light brigantine, 
Lying at anchor near the Arsenal ; 
Each having sworn, and by the holy rood. 
To slay or to be slain. 

And from the tower 
The watchman gives the signal. In the east 



124 ROGERS. 

A ship is seen, and making for the Port ; 

Her flag St, Mark's. And now she turns the point, 

Over the waters like a sea-bird flying ! 

Ha, 'tis the same, 'tis theirs ! from stern to prow 

Green with victorious wreaths, she comes to bring 

All that was lost. Coasting, with narrow search, 

Friuli — like a tiger in his spring, 

They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay 

Sharing the spoil in blind security 

And casting lots — had slain them, one and all. 

All to the last, and flung them far and wide 

Into the sea, their proper element ; 

Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long 

Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet, 

Breathing a little, in his look retained 

The fierceness of his soul. 

Thus were the Brides 
Lost and recovered ; and Avhat now remained 
But to give thanks 1 Twelve breast-plates and twelve 

crowns, 
By the young Victors to their Patron-Saint 
Vowed in the field, inestimable gifts, 
Flaming with gems and gold, were in due time 
Laid at his feet ; and ever to preserve 
The memory of a day so full of change. 
From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, 
Thro' many an age, as oft as it came round, 
'Twas held religiously. The Doge resigned 
His crimson for pure ermine, visiting 
At earliest dawn St. Mary's silver shrine ; 
And through the city, in a stately barge 
Of gold, were borne with songs and symphonies 



THE BRIDES OF VENICE. 



125 




Twelve ladies, young and noble. Clad they were 
In bridal white with bridal ornaments, 
Each in her glittering veil ; and on the deck, 
As on a burnished throne, they glided by ; 
No window or balcony but adorned 
With hangings of rich texture, not a roof 
But covered with beholders, and the air 
Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars 
Moving in concert with the harmony, 
Through the Rialto to the Ducal Palace, 
And at a banquet, served with honor there. 
Sat representing, in the eyes of aU, 
Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears, 
Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice. 

26 



126 



ROGERS. 




DON GARZTA. 



Among those awful forms, in elder time 

Assembled, and tlirough many an after-age 

Destined to stand as Genii of the Place 

Where men most meet in Florence, may be seen 

His who first played the Tyrant. Clad in mail, 

But with his helmet off — in kingly state, 

Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass ; 

And they, who read the legend underneath. 

Go and pronounce him happy. Yet, methinks. 

There is a chamber that, if walls could speak. 

Would turn their admiration into pity. 

Half of what passed, died with him ; but the rest, 

All he discovered when the fit was on, 



DON GARZIA. 127 

All tliat, by those who listened, could be gleaned 
From broken sentences and starts in sleep, 
Is told, and by an honest Chronicler. 

Two of liis sons, Giovanni and Garzia, 
(The eldest had not seen his nineteenth summer) 
Went to the chase ; but only one returned. 
Giovanni, when the huntsman blew his horn 
O'er the last stag had started from the brake. 
And in the heather turned to stand at bay, 
Appeared not ; and at close of day was found 
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas, 
The trembling Cosmo guessed the deed, the doer ; 
And, having caused the body to be borne 
In secret to that Chamber — at an hour 
When all slept sound, save she who bore them both, 
Who little thought of what was yet to come, 
And lived but to be told — he bade Garzia 
Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand 
A winking lamp, and in the other a key 
Massive and dungeon-hke, thither he led : 
And, having entered in and locked the door. 
The father fixed his eyes upon the son. 
And closely questioned him. No change betrayed 
Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up 
The bloody sheet. " Look there ! Look there !" he cried. 
" Blood calls for blood — and from a father's hand ! 
— Unless thyself will save him that sad office. 
What !" lie exclaimed, when shuddering at the sight. 
The boy breathed out, " I stood but on my guard;" 
" Dar'st thou then blacken one who never wronged thee. 
Who would not set his foot upon a worm 1 
Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee, 
And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all." 



128 ROGERS. 

Then from Garzia's belt he drew the blade, 
The fatal one which spilt his brother's blood ; 
And, kneehng on the ground, " Great God !" he cried, 
" Grant me the strength to do an act of justice. 
Thou knowest what it costs me ; but alas, 
How can I spare myself, sparing none else 1 
Grant me the strength, the will — and oh forgive 
The sinful soul of a most wretched son. 
'Tis a most wretched father that implores it," 
Long on Garzia's neck he hung and wept. 
Long pressed him to his bosom tenderly ; 
And then, but while he held him by the arm. 
Thrusting him backward, turned away his face. 
And stabbed him to the heart. 

Well might a youth, 
Studious of men, anxious to learn and know, 
When in the train of some great embassy 
He came, a visitant, to Cosmo's court. 
Think on the past ; and, as he wandered through 
The ample spaces of an ancient house, 
Silent, deserted — stop awhile to dwell 
Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall 
Together, as of Two in bonds of love. 
Those of the unhappy brothers, and conclude 
From the sad looks of him Avho could have told 

The terrible truth. ^Well might he heave a sigh 

For poor humanity, when he beheld 

That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire, 

Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate, 

Wrapt in his nightgown, o'er a sick man's mess, 

Li the last stage — death-struck and deadly pale; 

His wife, another, not his Eleanor, 

At once his nurse and his interpreter. 



GINEVKA. 129 



GINEVKA. 



If thou shonldst ever come by choice or chance 

To MoDENA, Avherc still religiously 

Among her ancient trophies is preserved 

Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs 

Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), 

Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate, 

Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 

Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 

And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, 

Will long detain thee ; through their arched Avalks, 

Dim at noonday, discovering many a ghmpse 

Of knights and dames, such as in old romance. 

And lovers, such as in heroic song. 

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, 

Who in the spring-time, as alone they sat, 

Venturing together on a tale of love, 

E.ead only part that day. A summer sun 

Sets ere one-half is seen ; but ere thou go. 
Enter the house — prythee, forget it not — 
And look awhile upon a picture there. 

'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, 
The very last of that illustrious race. 
Done by Zampieri — ^but by whom I care not. 
He, who observes it — ere he passes on, 
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again. 
That he may call it up, when far away. 

She sits, inclining foiivard as to speak, 
Her lips half-open, and her finger up. 
As though she said " Beware !" her vest of gold 
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, 

27 



130 



ROGERS. 



An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; 

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 

A coronet of pearls. But then her face. 

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, 

The overflowings of an innocent heart — 

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled. 

Like some wild melody ! 




Alone it hangs. 
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion. 
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm. 
But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ ; 
A chest that came from Venice, and had held 



GINEVRA, 131 

The ducal robes of some old Ancestor. 
That by the way — it may be true or false — 
But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not, 
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. 

Slie was an only child ; from infancy 
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. 
Her Mother dying of the gift she gave. 
That precious gift, what else remained to him "? 
The young Ginevea was his all in life, 
StiU as she grew, forever in his sight ; 
And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
She was all gentleness, all gaiety ; 
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come, — the day, the hour : 
Now, fr'owning, smiling, for the hundredth time, 
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 

Great was the joy ; but at the bridal feast. 
When all sat down, the Bride was wanting there. 
Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, 
" 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !" 
And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook. 
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco. 
Laughing and looking back and flying still. 
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 
But now, alas, she was not to be found ; 
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed. 
But that she was not ! 



U2 ROGERS. 

Weary of his life, 
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
Orsini lived ; and long might'st thou have seen 
An old man wandering as in quest of something, 
Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 
Full fifty years were passed, and all forgot, 
When on an idle day, a day of search 
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery. 
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said 
By one as young, as thoughtless as Gineyra, 
" Why not remove it from its lurking-place/?" 
'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton. 
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had perished — save a nuptial ring. 
And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
" Gineyra." 

There then had she found a grave ! 
Within that chest had she concealed herself. 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, — 
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there. 
Fastened her down forever ! 





,*^^''^ 




% **»,, 



iili#aviui^ 



f 



WORDSWORTH. 



A RURAL HERO. 



K ^VlutecKMi-cli 



The mountain ash 
No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
Decked vs^ith autumnal berries, that outshine 

28 



134 



WORDSWORTH. 



Spring's richest blossoms ; and ye may have marked 

By a brook side or solitary tani, 

How she her station doth adorn. The pool 

Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 

Are brightened round her. In his native vale, 




Such and so glorious did this youth appear ; 
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow. 
By all the graces with Avhich Nature's hand 
Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards 
Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 



A RURAL HERO. i:55 

Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form ; 

Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade. 

Discovered in their own despite to sense 

Of mortals (if such fables without blame 

May find chance mention on this sacred ground). 

So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise. 

And through the impediment of rural cares. 

In him revealed a scholar's genius shone ; 

And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight. 

In him the spirit of a hero walked 

Our unpretending valley. How the quoit 

Whizzed fr'om the stripling's arm ! If touched by him, 

The inglorious football mounted to the pitch 

Of the lark's flight, or shaped a rainbow curve 

Aloft in prospect of the shouting field ! 

The indefatigable fox had learned 

To dread his perseverance in the chase. 

With admiration would he lift his eyes 

To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 

Was loth to assault the majesty he loved. 

Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 

To guard the royal brood. The sailing glede, 

The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe. 

The sporting sea-gull dancing with the waves. 

And cautious water-fowl from distant cHmes, 

Fixed at their seat, the centre of the mere. 

Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 



136 



WORDSWORTH. 





THE SKATER. 



In the frosty season, Avlien the sun 
Was set, and visible for many a mile 
The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, 
I heeded not their summons : happy time 
It was indeed for all of us, — for me 
It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
The village clock tolled six, — I wheeled about. 
Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
That cares not for his home. All shod with steel. 



THE SKATER. 137 

Wc hissed along the poHshed ice in games 

Confederate, imitative of the chase 

And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 

The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 

So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 

And not a voice was idle ; with the din 

Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 

The leafless trees and every icy crag 

Tinkled Hke iron ; while far distant hills 

Into the tumult sent an alien sound 

Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 

Eastward were sparkHng clear, and in the west 

The orange sky of evening died away. 

Not seldom from the uproar I retired 

Into a silent bay, or sportively 

Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 

To cut across the reflex of a star 

That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed 

Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes. 

When we had given our bodies to the wind, 

And all the shadowy banks on either side 

Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 

The rapid line of motion, then at once 

Have 1, reclining back upon my heels. 

Stopped short ; yet still the solitary clifl"s 

Wheeled by me, — even as if the earth had rolled 

With visible motion her diurnal round ! 

Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 

Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 

Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 

29 



138 WORDSWORTH. 



ODE TO DUTY. 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love, 
Who art a Hght to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe, 
From vain temptations dost set free, 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth. 

Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth: 

Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 

Who do thy work, and know it not : 

Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring hght. 

And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 
Live in the spirit of this creed; 
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 



ODE TO DUTY. l:3'J 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 

No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 

Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I noAV would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul, 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control; 

But in the quietness of thought : 

Me this unchartered freedom tires : 

I feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 

Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds. 

And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh 
and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

O, let my Aveakness have an end ! 



140 WORDSWORTH. 

Give unto me, made lowly Aviso, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 



THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN. 



High on her speculative tower 
Stood Science waiting for the hour 

When Sol was destined to endure 
That darkening of his radiant face 
Which Superstition strove to chase, 

Erewhile, with rites impure. 



Afloat beneath Italian skies, 
Through regions fair as Paradise 

We gayly passed, — till Nature Avrought 
A silent and unlooked-for change. 
That checked the desultory range 

Of joy and sprightly thought. 

Where'er was dipped the toiling oar, 
The waves danced round us as before, 

As lightly, though of altered hue, 
'Mid recent coolness, such as falls 
At noontide from umbrageous walls 

That screen the morning dew. 



THE ECLIPSE OP THE SUN. 141 

No vapor stretched its Avings ; no cloud 
Cast far or near a murky shroud ; 

The sky an azure field displayed ; 
'Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed, 
Of all its' sparkling rays disarmed, 

And as in slumber laid, — 

Or something night and day between, 
Like moonshine, — but the hue was green ; 

Still moonshine, without shadow, spread 
On jutting rock, and curved shore, 
Where gazed the peasant from his door 

And on the mountain's head. 

It tinged the Julian steeps, — it lay, 
Lugano ! on thy ample bay ; 

The solemnizing veil was drawn 
O'er villas, terraces, and towers ; 

To Albogasio's olive bowers, 

Porlezza's verdant lawn. 

But Fancy with the speed of fire 
Hath passed to Milan's loftiest spire. 

And there ahghts 'mid that aerial host 
Of figures human and divine. 
White as the snows of Apennine 

Lidurated by frost. 

Awe-stricken she beholds the array 
That guards the Temple night and day ; 

Angels she sees, that might from heaven have flown, 
And Virgin-saints, who not in vain 

30 



142 WORDSWORTH. 

Have striven by purity to gain 
The beatific crown, — 

Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings 
Each narrowing above each ; — the wings, 

The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips. 
The starry zone of sovereign height, — 
All steeped in this portentous light ! 

All suffering dim echpse ! 

Thus after Man had fallen, (if aught 
These perishable spheres have wrought 

May with that issue be compared,) 
Throngs of celestial visages. 
Darkening like water in the breeze, 

A holy sadness shared. 

Lo ! while I speak, the laboring sun 
His glad deliverance has begun : 

The cypress waves her sombre plume 
More cheerily ; and town and toAver, 
The vineyard and the olive-boAver, 

Their lustre reassume ! 

O Ye, who guard and grace my home 
While in far-distant lands we roam, 

What countenance hath this Day put on for you "? 
While we looked round with favored eyes, 
Did sullen mists hide lake and skies 

And mountains from your view "? 

Or was it given you to behold 

Like vision, pensive though not cold, 



THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN. 



143 



From the smooth breast of gay Wmandermere ] 
Saw ye the soft yet awful veil 
Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale, 

Helvellyn's brow severe '? 

I ask in vain, — and know far less 
If sickness, sorrow, or distress 

Have spared my Dwelling to this hour ; 
Sad blindness ! but ordained to prove 
Our faith in Heaven's unfaihng love 

And all-controUing power. 








5iS»,, 



/; ,1 



'^'"^^^^ ' 



'C^L/^t/-L^^ 



SCOTT. 



THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 



Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 
The Scots beheld the Enghsh host 
Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post, 
And heedful watched them as they crossed 



THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 145 

The TiU by Twisel Bridge. 

High sight it is, and haughty, while 

They dive into the deep defile 

Beneath the caverned cliff they fall. 

Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree. 

Troop after troop are disappearing : 

Troop after troop their banners rearing, 
Upon the eastern bank you see. 
Still pouring down the rocky den, 

Where flows the sullen Till, 
And rising from the dim-wood glen, 
Standards on standards, men on men, 

In slow succession still. 
And, bending o'er the Gothic arch. 
And pressing on, in ceaseless march. 

To gain the opposing hill. 
That morn, to many a trumpet-clang, 
Twisel ! thy rocks' deep echo rang ; 
And many a chief of birth and rank. 
Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see 
In spring-tide blooni so lavishly. 
Had then from many an axe its doom. 
To give the marching columns room. 

And why stands Scotland idly now, 
Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow, 
Since England gains the pass the while. 
And struggles through the deep defile "? 
What checks the fiery soul of James 1 
Why sits that champion of the dames 

31 



14(5 SCOTT. 

Inactive on his steed, 
And sees, between him and his land. 
Between him and Tweed's sonthern strand, 

His host Lord Surrey lead 1 
What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand "? 
— O, Douglas, for thy leading wand ! 

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed! 
O for one hour of Wallace wight. 
Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight, 
And cry — " Saint Andrew and our right !" 
Another sight had seen that morn. 
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne ! — 
The precious hour has passed in vain. 
And England's host has gained the plain ; 
Wheeling their march, and circling still. 
Around the base of Flodden hill. 

Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, 
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 
" Hark ! hark ! my lord, an Enghsh drum ! 
And see ascending squadrons come 

Between Tweed's river and the hill. 
Foot, horse, and cannon : — hap what hap. 
My basnet to a prentice cap. 

Lord Surrey's o'er the Till! — 
Yet more ! yet more ! — how fair arrayed 
They file from out the hawthorn shade. 

And sweep so gallant by ! 
With all their banners bravely spread, 

And all their armor flashing high, 
Saint George might waken from the dead. 



THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 117 

To see fair England's standards fly." — 
" Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, " thou'dst best. 
And listen to our lord's behest." — 
With kindling brow Lord Marmion said, — 
" This instant be oiur band arrayed ; 
The river must be quickly crossed. 
That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
If fight King James, — as well I trust, 
That fight he will, and fight he must, — 
The Lady Clare behind our lines 
Shall tarry, while the battle joins." 

Himself he swift on horseback threw. 
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu ; 
Far less would listen to his prayer, 
To leave behind the helpless Clare. 
Down to the Tweed his band he drew. 
And muttered as the flood they view, 
" The pheasant in the falcon's claw, 
He scarce will yield to please a daw : 
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe, 

So Clare shall bide with me." 
Then on that dangerous ford, and deep,. 
Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies creep. 

He ventured desperately: 
And not a moment will he bide, 
Till squire or groom before him ride ; 
Headmost of all he stems the tide, 

And stems it gallantly. 
Eustace held Clare upon her horse, 

Old Hubert led her rein, 



148 SCOTT. 

Stoutly they braved the current's course, 
And, though far downward driven per force, 

The southern bank they gain ; 
Behind them stragghng, came to shore, 

As best they might, the train : 
Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore 

A caution not in vain ; 
Deep need that day that every string, 
By wet unharmed, should sharply ring. 
A moment then Lord Marmion staid, 
And breathed his steed, his men arrayed. 

Then forward moved his band, 
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, 
He halted by a Cross of Stone, 
That, on a hillock standing lone. 

Did all the field command. 

Hence might they see the full array 

Of either host, for deadly fray ; 

Their marshalled lines stretched east and west, 

And fronted north and south, 
And distant salutation passed 

From the loud cannon mouth ; 
Not in the close successive rattle. 
That breathes the voice of modern battle, 

But slow and far between. — ' 
The hillock gained. Lord Marmion staid, 
" Here by this Cross," he gently said, 

" You well may view the scene. 
Llere shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : 
O ! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — 



THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 149 

Thou wilt nof? — well, no less my care 
Shall, Avatchflil, for thy weal prepare. — 
You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard. 

With ten picked archers of my train ; 
With England if the day go hard. 

To Berwick speed amain, — 
But if we conquer, cruel maid, 
My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 

When here we meet again," 
He waited not for answer there. 
And would not mark the maid's despair. 

Nor heed the discontented look 
From either squire; but spurred amain, 
And dashing through the battle-plain. 

His way to Surrey took. 



-" The good Lord Marmion, by my life ! 



Welcome to danger's hour ! 
Short greeting serves in time of strife : — 

Thus have I ranged my power : 
Myself will rule this central host, 

Stout Stanley fronts their right. 
My sons command the vaward post. 

With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight ; 

Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, 

Shall be in rearward of the fight, 
And succor those that need it most. 

Now, gallant Marmion, well I know. 

Would gladly to the vanguard go ; 
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there. 
With thee their charge will bhthely share ; 

32 



150 SCOTT. 

There fight thine own retainers too, 
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." — 
" Thanks, noble Surrey !" Marmion said, 
Nor further greeting there he paid ; 
But, parting Hke a thunderbolt, 
First in the vanguard made a halt, 

Where such a shout there rose 
Of " Marmion ! Marmion !" that the cry, 
Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, 

Startled the Scottish foes. 

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
With Lady Clare upon the hill ; 
On which (for far the day was spent) 
The western sunbeams now were bent. 
The cry they heard, its meaning knew, 
Could plain their distant comrades view : 
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
" Unworthy office here to stay ! 
No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — 
But see ! look up — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 

And sudden, as he spoke. 
From the sharp ridges of the hill, 
All downward to the banks of Till, 

Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and fast, and rolling far, 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
Announced their march ; their tread alone. 
At times one warning trumpet blown. 



THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 151 

At times a stifled hum, 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 

King James did rushing come. — 
Scarce could they hear, or see their foes, 

Until at weapon-point they close, — 
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust ; 

And such a yell was there. 
Of sudden and portentous birth. 
As if men fought upon the earth, 

And fiends in upper air ; 
Oh, life and death were in the shout. 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 

And triumph and despair. 
Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye 
Could in the darkness nought descry. 

At length the freshening Avestern blast 

Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 

And, first, the ridge of mingled spears 

Above the brightening cloud appears ; 

And in the smoke the pennons flew. 

As in the storm the white seamew. 

Then marked they, dashing broad and far. 

The broken billows of the Avar, 

And plumed crests of chieftains brave. 

Floating like foam upon the wave ; 

But nought distinct they see : 
Wide ranged the battle on the plain ; 
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; 
Fell England's arroAV-flight like rain ; 
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 



152 SCOTT. 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : 
And stainless Tunstall's banner white, 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright, 
Still bear them bravely in the fight ; 

Although against them come. 
Of gallant Gordons many a one. 
And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
And many a rugged Border clan. 

With Huntly, and with Home. 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; 
Though there the western mountaineer 
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, 
And flung the feeble targe aside, . 
And with both hands the broadsword plied. 
'Twas vain : — But Fortune, on the right, 
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white. 

The Howard's lion fell ; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 
The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 

Loud were the clanging blows ; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high, 

The pennon sunk and rose ; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 



THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 153 

It wavered 'mid the foes. 
No longer Blount the view could bear : 
" By Heaven, and all its saints ! I swear 

I Avill not see it lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
May bid your beads, and patter prayer, 

I gallop to the host ! 
And to the fray he rode amain, 
Followed by all the archer train. 
The fiery youth, with desperate charge, 
Made, for a space, an opening large, — 

The rescued banner rose, — 
But darkly closed the war around. 
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 

It sank among the foes. 
Then Eustace mounted too : — yet staid, 
As loth to leave the helpless maid. 

When, fast as shaft can fly, 
Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread. 
The loose rein dangling from his head, 
Housing and saddle bloody red. 

Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; 
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 

A look and sign to Clara cast, 

To mark he would return in haste. 
Then plunged into the fight. 

Ask me not what the maiden feels. 
Left in that dreadful hour alone : 

Perchance her reason stoops^ or reels ; 
Perchance a courage, not her own. 
Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 

33 



154 SCOTT. 

The scattered van of England wheels ; — 
She only said, as loud in air 
The tumult roared, " Is Wilton there "?" 
They fly, or, maddened by despair. 
Fight but to die,— "Is Wilton there f 
With that, straight up the hill there rode 

Tavo horsemen drenched with gore, 
And in their arms a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand still strained the broken brand ; 
His arms were smeared with blood and sand: 
Dragged from among the horses' feet. 
With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 
The falcon-crest and plumage gone. 
Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . 
Young Blount his armor did unlace, 
And gazing on his ghastly face, 

Said — " By Saint George, he's gone! 
That spear-wound has our master sped. 
And see the deep cut on his head ! 

Good night to Marmion." — 
" Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease : 
lie opes his eyes," said Eustace ; " peace !" 

When, defied his casque, he felt free air. 
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — 
"Where's Harry Blount ] Fitz-Eustace where"? 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ] 
Hedeem my pennon, — charge again ! 
Cry — 'Marmion to the rescue!' — Vain! 
Last of my race, on battle-plain 
That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! — 



THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 

Yet my last thought is England's — fly, 
To Dacre bear my signet-ring : 
Tell him his sqnadrons up to bring. — 

Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; 
Tunstall lies dead upon the field, 
His lifeblood stains the spotless shield : 




^■"^aczB- -=;^'w:^^g^^^^^^?gil^^^^^'^^~^ 



Edmund is down : my hfe is reft ; 
The Admiral alone is left. 
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — 
With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
Full upon Scotland's central host. 
Or victory and England's lost. — 



156 SCOTT. 

Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly ! 

Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 

They parted, and alone he lay ; 

Clare drew her from the sight away, 
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murmured — " Is there none, 

Of all my halls have nurst, 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed water from the spring, 

To slake my dying thirst V 

O, Woman ! in our hours of ease. 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please. 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made ; 
When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou ! — 
Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears. 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stooped her by the runnel's side. 

But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
For, oozing from the mountain's side, 
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where shall she turn ! — behold her mark 

A little fountain cell. 
Where water, clear as diamond spark, 

In a stone basin fell. 



THE BATTLE OF FLODUEN. 157 

Above, some half-worn letters say, 
Brfufe. iucarfi. iiilijrim. tjrinft. autr. pvafi. 
jFov. tfjr. feintf. soul. of. SstJil. (JJTi'efi. 
ffi33i)0. Ijuilt. tilts, cross. anK. toell. 

She filled the helm, and back she hied, 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A Monk supporting Marmion's head ; 
A pious man, whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fought, 

To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave. 
And, as she stooped his brow to lave — 
" Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
" Or injured Constance bathes my head 1" 

Then, as remembrance rose, — 
" Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 

I must redress her woes. 
Short space, few words, are mine to spare ; 
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare !" — 

" Alas !" she said, " the while, — 
O, think of your immortal weal ! 
In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 

She died at Holy Isle." — 

Lord Marmion started from the ground. 
As Hght as if he felt no wound ; 
Though in the action burst the tide, 
In torrents, from his wounded side. 
" Then it was truth," — he said — " I knoAV 
That the dark presage must be true. — 
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 

84 



158 SCOTT. 

AVould spare me but a clay ! 
For wasting fire, and dying groan, 
And priests slain on the altar stone. 

Might bribe him for delay ! 
It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
Curse on yon base marauder's lance, 
And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, 
Supported by the trembhng Monk. 

"With fruitless labor, Clara bound, 

And strove to stanch, the gushing wound: 

The Monk, with unavaiUng cares, 

Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 

Ever, he said, that, close and near, 

A lady's voice was in his ear. 

And that the priest he could not hear ; 

For that she ever sung, 
" In the lost battle, home clown hy the flying, 
Where mingles wars rattle with groans of the dying !" 

So the notes rung ; — 
" Avoid thee. Fiend ! — with cruel hand, 
Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — 
O, look, my son, upon yon sign 
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; 

O, think on faith and bliss ! 
By many a deathbed I have been. 
And many a sinner's parting seen. 

But never aught like this." — 
The war, that for a space did fail, 
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale. 



THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 159 

And — Stanley ! was the cry ; — 
A light on Marmion's visage spread, 

And fired his glazing eye : 
With dying hand, above his head, 
He shook the fragment of his blade, 

And shouted " Victory !" — 
" Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on !" 
"Were the last words of Marmion, 

By this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
For still the Scots, around their King, 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor vaward wing, 

Where Huntly, and where Home '? — 
O, for a blast of that dread horn. 
On Fontarabian echoes borne. 

That to King Charles did come. 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer. 

On Roncesvalles died ! 
Such blasts might warn them, not in vain. 
To quit the plunder of the slain, 
And turn the doubtful day again, 

While yet on Flodden side. 
Afar, the Koyal Standard flies. 
And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, 

Our Caledonian pride ! 
In vain the wish — for far away, 
While spoil and havoc mark their way, 
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray. — 
" O, Lady," cried the Monk, " away !" 



IGO SCOTT. 

And placed her on her steed, 
And led her to the chapel fair, 

Of Tihnouth upon Tweed. 
There all the night they spent in prayer, 
And at the dawn of morning, there 
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. 

But as they left the dark'ning heath, 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 
The English shafts in volleys hailed, 
In headlong charge their horse assailed ; 
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep 
To break the Scottish circle deep. 

That fought around their King. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go. 
Though billmen ply the ghastly blow, 

Unbroken was the ring ; 
The stubborn spearmen still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood, 
Each stepping where his comrade stood, 

The instant that he fell. 
No thought was there of dastard flight; 
Linked in the serried phalanx tight, 
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, 

As fearlessly and well ; 
Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded King. 
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands 
Led back from strife his shattered bands ; 

And from the charge they drew, 
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, 



THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 161 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Then did their loss his foemen know ; 
Tlieir King, their Lords, their mightiest low, 
They melted from the field, as snow, 
When streams are swoln and south winds blow. 

Dissolves in silent dew, 
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, 

While many a broken band, 
Disordered, through her currents dash, 

To gain the Scottish land ; 
To town and tower, to down and dale, 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, 
And raise the universal wail. 
Tradition, legend, tune, and song. 
Shall many an age that wail prolong : 
Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear. 

Of Flodden's fatal field, 
Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, 

And broken was her shield ! 
Day dawns upon the mountain's side : — 
There, Scotland, lay thy bravest pride. 
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one : 
The sad survivors all are gone. — 
View not that corpse mistrustfully. 
Defaced and mangled though it be ; 
Nor to yon Border castle high. 
Look northward with upbraiding eye ; 

Nor cherish hope in vain, 
That, journeying far on foreign strand, 
Tlie Royal Pilgrim to his land 

May yet return again. 

35 



162 



SCOTT. 



He saw the wreck his rashness wrought ; 
Reckless of hfe, he desperate fought, 

And fell on Flodden plain : 
And well in death his trusty brand, 
Firm clenched within his manly hand. 

Beseemed the monarch slain. 
But, O ! how changed since yon blythe night !- 
Gladly I turn me from the sight, 

Unto my tale again. 




THE CYPRESS WREATH. 163 



THE CYPRESS WREATH. 

O LADY, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress tree ! 
Too. lively glow the lilies light, 
The varnished holly's all too bright ; 
The May-flower and the eglantine 
May shade a brow less sad than mine ; 
But, lady, weave no wreath for me. 
Or weave it of the cypress tree ! 

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
With tendrils of the laughing vine ; 
The manly oak, the pensive yew. 
To patriot and to sage be due ; 
The myrtle bough bids lovers Hve, 
But that Matilda will not give ; 
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress tree ! 

Let merry England proudly rear 
Her blended roses, bought so dear ; 
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
With heath and harebell dipped in dew ; 
On favored Erin's crest be seen 
The flower she loves of emerald green — 
But, lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress tree ! 

Strike the wild harp, Avhile maids prepare 
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; 



1G4 SCOTT. 

And, while his crown of laurel leaves 
With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; 
But when you hear the passing bell, 
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me. 
And twine it of the cypress tree ! 

Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough ; 
But, oh Matilda, twine not now ! 
Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And I have looked and loved my last ! 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — 
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me. 
And weave it of the cypress tree. 



COLERIDGE. 




HYiMN BEFOEE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 



Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course 1 So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, aAvful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 

3G 



IGG COLERIDGE. 

How silently! around thee and above, 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee. 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Did'st vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and Kfe's own secret joy ; 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliifs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink ! 
Companion of the morning star at dawn. 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald ! wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 



HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE. 1G7 

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ■? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light"? 
AVho made thee parent of perpetual streams "? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
Forever shattered, and the same forever ] 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam '? 
And who commanded (and the silence came). 
Here let the billoAVS stifien, and have rest ] 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's bro^v 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amidst their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen fuU moon ■? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows'? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveHest blue, spread garlands at your feet 1 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-Hke sounds ! 
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow. 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 



1G8 COLERIDGE. 

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm ! 
Ye lightnings, ye dread arrows of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 



Once more, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — 
Thou too, again, stupendous Mountain ! thou. 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base. 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, hke a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — Hise, O ever rise ; 
llise, hke a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread Ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



Lovi^:. 



1G9 




LOVE. 

All thonglits, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal jBrame, 
Are all but ministers of love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 



Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
"When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruined tower. 

37 



170 COLERIDGE. 

The moonshine, steahng o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the armed man. 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face, 

I told her of the knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The lady of the land. 

I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 



LOVE. 171 

AVitli Avliich I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
Which crazed this bold and lovely knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once, 
In green and sunny glade. 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend, 
This miserable knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The lady of the land ; 

And how she wept and clasped his knees, 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain. 



172 COLERIDGE. 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And hoAV his madness went aAvay, 
When on the yellow forest leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 

His dying Avords — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with ]Dity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve — 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng ; 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long ! 

She wept with pity and delight. 
She blushed with love and virgin shame ; 
And Uke the murmur of a dream 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stept aside, 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace, 



LOVE. 173 

And bending back her head, looked up 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears ; and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

. My bright and beauteous bride ! 



.38 



SOUTIIEY. 




SUNDAY MORNING. 



Go thou and seek the House of Prayer ! 

I to the woodlands wend, and there 
In lovely Nature sec the God of Love. 

The swelling organ's peal 

Wakes not my soul to zeal, 
Like the sweet music of the vernal grove. 
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest 



SUNDAY MORNING. 175 

Excite not such devotion in my breast, 

As where the noontide beam, 

Flashed from some broken stream. 
Vibrates on the dazzled sight ; 

Or where the cloud-suspended rain 

Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain ; 
Or when, reclining on the cliff's huge height, 
I mark the billows burst in silver light. 

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer ! 

I to the woodlands shall repair, 

Feed with all Nature's charms mine eyes, 

And hear all Nature's melodies. 

The primrose bank will there dispense 

Faint fragrance to the awakened sense ; 

The morning beams that life and joy impart. 

Will with their influence Avarm my heart, 

And the full tear that down my cheek will steal, 

Will speak the prayer of praise I feel. 

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer ! 
I to the woodlands bend my way, 

And meet Religion there ! 
She needs not haunt the high-arched dome to pray. 
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day ; 
At liberty she loves to rove, 

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipped dale ; 
Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove. 

Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. 
Sweet are these scenes to her ; and when the Night 
Pours in the North her silver streams of light. 
She woos reflection in the silent gloom. 
And ponders on the world to come. 



176 SOUTHEY. 



THE HOLLY-TKEE. 



READER ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The HoUy-Tree ] 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves, 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise, 
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle through their prickly round 

Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear. 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 

1 love to view these things with curious eyes. 

And moralize ; 
And in this wisdom of the Holly-Tree 

Can emblem see 
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, 
One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear 

Harsh and austere. 
To those who on my leisure would intrude 

Reserved and rude, 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know. 
Some harshness show. 



THE DESERT-THIRST. 177 

All vain asperities I clay by day 

Would wear away, 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green, 
The Holly leaves a sober hue display, 

Less bright than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 
What then so cheerful as the Holly-Tree ] 

So serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng ; 
So would 1 seem amid the young and gay 

INiore grave than they. 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the Holly-Tree. 



THE DESERT-THIRST. 

Still o'er the wilderness 

Settled the moveless mist. 

The timid antelope, that heard their steps. 

Stood doubtful where to turn in that dim light ; 

The ostrich, blindly hastening, met them full. 

At night, again in hope. 

Young Thalaba lay down ; 

The morning came, and not one guiding ray 

Through the thick mist was visible. 

The same deep moveless. mist that mantled all. 

.S9 



178 SOUTHEY. 

Oil for the vulture's scream, 

Who haunts for prey the abode of human kind ! 

Oh for the plover's pleasant cry, 

To tell of Avater near ! 

Oh for the camel-driver's song ! 

For now the water-skin grows light, 

Though of the draught, more eagerly desired, 

Imperious prudence took with sparing thirst. 

Oft from the third night's broken sleep, 

As in his dreams he heard 

The sound of rushing winds, 

Started the anxious youth, and looked abroad 

In vain ! for still the deadly calm endured. 

Another day passed on ; 

The water-skin was drained ! 

But then one hope arrived, 

For there was motion in the air ! 

The sound of the wind arose anon. 

That scattered the thick mist. 

And lo ! at length the lovely face of Heaven ! 

• 

Alas! a wretched scene 

V Was opened on their view. 

They looked around ; no wells were near. 

No tent, no human aid ! 

Flat on the camel lay the water-skin. 

And their dumb servant, difficultly now, 

Over hot sands and under the hot sun. 

Dragged on with patient pain. 

But oh, the joy ! the blessed sight ; 
When in that burning waste the travellers 



THE DESERT-THIRST. 



179 




Saw a green meadow, fair with ilowers besprent, 

Azure and yellow, like the beautiful fields 

Of England, when amid the growing grass 

The blue-bell bends, the golden king-cup shines, 

And the sweet cowslip scents the genial air. 

In the merry month of May ! 

Oh, joy ! the travellers 

Gaze on each other with hope-brightened eyes. 

For sure through that green meadow flows 

The Hving stream ! And lo ! their famished beast 

Sees the restoring sight ! 

Hope gives his feeble limbs a sudden strength 

He hurries on ! — 




LAMB. 



HESTER. 



When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their phxce ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
With vain endeavor. 



HESTER. 181 



A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed, 



And her together. 



A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
Tliat flushed her spirit. 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call: — if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied. 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool. 
But she was trained in Nature's school. 
Nature had blest her, 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot bhnd. 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore. 

Some summer morning, 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet forewarning ] 

40 



182 



LAMB. 




TPIE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, 
All, all are gone, tlie old famihar faces. 



I loved a love once, fairest among women ! 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 



THE FAMILY NAME. 183 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
-Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-hke I paced round the haunts of my childhood. 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling 1 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old famihar faces. 



THE FAMILY NAME. 

What reason first imposed thee, gentle name. 
Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, 
Without reproach 1 we trace our stream no higher; 

And I, a childless man, may end the same. 

Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains. 

In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, 

Received thee first amid the merry mocks 
And arch-allusions of his fellow swains. 

Perchance from Salem's hoher fields returned, 
With glory gotten on the heads abhorred 
Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord 

Took his meek title, in whose zeal he burned. 
Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, 
No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name. 




CAMPBELL. 



THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 



Of Nelson and the North, 

Smg the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark's crown, 



THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 185 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 

By each gun the lighted brand, 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 
Led them on. — 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 
While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 
It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path. 

There was silence deep as death ; 

And the boldest held his breath, 
For a time. — 

But the might of England flushed 

To anticipate the scene ; 
And her van the fleeter rushed 

O'er the deadly space between. 
" Hearts of oak !" our captain cried ; when each gun, 

From its adamantine hps. 

Spread a death-shade round the ships. 

Like the hurricane eclipse 
Of the sun. 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 
Till a feebler cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back ; — 
Their shots along the deep slowly boom: — 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

41 



ISG 



CAMPBELL. 



As they strike tlie shattered sail ; 
Or, in conflagration pale, 
Light the gloom. — 




Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hailed them o'er the Avave ; 

" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
And we conquer but to save : — 

So peace instead of death let us bring ; 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 
With the crews, at England's feet, 
And make submission meet 

To our King." — 



Then Denmark blessed our chief. 
That he gave her wounds repose ; 



THE. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 187 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose, 
As Death withdrew his shades from the day, 

While the sun looked smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woeful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. — 



Now joy, old England, raise ! 

For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze. 

While the wine-cup shines in light ; 
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar. 

Let us think of them that sleep. 

Full many a fathom deep, 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore. 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true, 
On the deck of fame that died. 

With the gallant good Riou : 
Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave. 

While the billow mournful rolls. 

And the mermaid's song condoles. 

Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave. 



188 



CAMPBELL. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lowered, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

AVhen reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain ; 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 




Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 

'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that Avelcomed me back. 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM, 189 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged Ave the Avine-cup, and fondly I swore 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 

" Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn !" 
And fain Avas their war-broken soldier to stay : — 

But sorroAv returned with the daAvning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted aAvay. 



42 




HALLOWED GROUND. 

What's hallowed ground ] Has earth a clod 
Its Maker meant not should be trod 
By man, the image of his God 

Erect and free, 
Unscourged by Superstition's rod 

To bow the knee 1 

That's hallowed ground — where, mourned and missed, 
The lips repose our love has kissed: — 
But where's their memory's mansion "? Is't 

Yon churchyard's bowers'? 
No ! in ourselves their souls exist 

A part of ours. 



HALLOWED GROUND. 



191 



A kiss can consecrate the groud 
Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 
The spot where love's first links were wound, 

That ne'er are riven, 
Is hallowed down to earth's profound, 

And up to Heaven! 







For time makes all but true love old ; 
The burning thoughts that then were told 
Run molten still in memory's mould ; 

And will not cool, 
Until the heart itself be cold 

In liOthe's pool. 



192 



CAMPBELL. 



What hallows ground where heroes sleep'? 
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap ! 
In dews that heavens far distant weep 

Their turf may bloom ; 
Or Genii twine beneath the deep 

Their coral tomb : 

But strew his ashes to the wind 

Whose sword or voice has served mankind- 

And is he dead, whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high ] — 
To live in hearts we leave behind, 

Is not to die. 



Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ] 
He's dead alone that lacks her light ! 
And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 

The sword he draAvs : — 
AVhat can alone ennoble fight "? 

A noble cause ! 




HALLOWED GROUND. 193 

Give that ! and welcome War to brace 

Her drums ! and rend Heaven's reeking space ! 

The colors planted face to face, 

The charging cheer, 
Thongh Death's pale horse lead on the chase, 

Shall still be dear. 

And place our trophies where men kneel 
To Heaven ! — but Heaven rebukes my zeal ! 
The cause of Truth and human weal, 

O God above ! 
Transfer it from the sword's appeal 

To Peace and Love. 

Peace, Love ! the cherubim, that join 
Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine, — 
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine, 

"Where they are not — 
The heart alone can make divine 

Rehgion's spot. 

To incantations dost thou trust. 
And pompous rites in domes august ] 
See mouldering stones and metal's rust 

BeUe the vaunt, 
That men can bless one pile of dust 

With chime or chant. 

The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man ! 
Thy temples — creeds themselves grow wan ! 
But there's a dome of nobler span, 
A temple given 

■ 43 



194 CAMPBELL. 

Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 
Its space is Heaven ! 

Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceihng, 
Where trancing the rapt spirit's feeUng, 
And God himself to man revealing, 

The harmonious spheres 
Make music, though unheard their pealing 

By mortal ears. 

Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ] 
Can sin, can death, your worlds obscure '? 
Else why so swell the thoughts at your 

Aspect above 1 
Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 

Of heavenly love ! 

And in your harmony sublime 
I read the doom of distant time ; 
That man's regenerate soul from crime 

Shall yet be drawn, 
And reason on his mortal clime 

Immortal dawn. 

What's hallowed ground l 'Tis what gives birth 
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth ! — 
Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 

Earth's compass round ; 
And your high priesthood shall make the earth 

AU hallowed ground. 



HORACE SMITH. 




HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 



Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with man, to tmnkle 

From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle 
As a libation. 



196 HORACE SMITH. 

Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye ; 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high. 

Ye bright Mosaics ! that with storied beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tessellate 
With numerous emblems of instructive duty, 
Your forms create. 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth, 

And tolls its peiiume on the passing air. 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn. 
Which God hath planned : 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply : 
Its choir the winds and waves — its organ thunder — 
Its dome the sky. 

There, as in solitude and shade I wander 

Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod. 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God. 

Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living preachers. 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book. 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 197 

Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor, 

" Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," 
Oh may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
Your lore subUme ! 

" Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thy glory, 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours ; 
How vain your grandeur ! ah, how transitory, 
Are human flowers !" 

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist"! 

With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure. 

Blooming o'er field and wave by day and night. 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 

For such a world of thought could furnish scope 'i 
Each fading calyx a memento mori. 
Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories ! angel-Hke collection ! 

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth. 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
A second birth. 

44 



IDS HORACE SMITH. 



Were I, O God ! in cliurchless lands remaining, 

Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 



ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. 

And thou hast walked about — how strange a story ! — 
In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago ! 

When the Memnonium was in aU its glory, 
And time had not begun to overthrow 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! 

Speak ! — for thou long enough hast acted dummy. 
Thou hast a tongue, — come — let us hear its tune ! 

Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, mummy ! 
B-evisiting the glimpses of the moon, — 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures. 

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features ! 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect, — 
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame 1 — 

Was Cheops, or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyramid that bears his name 1 — 

Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer 1 — 

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer I 

Perhaps thou wert a mason, — and forbidden. 
By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade : 



ADDRESS TO A MUMMV. 199 

Then say, what secret melody was hidden 

In Memnon's statue, Avhich at sunrise played ] 
Perhaps thou wert a priest ; — if so, my struggles 
Are vain, — for priestcraft never owns its juggles ! 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, 

Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass, — 

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat, — 

Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido pass, — 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch, at the great temple's dedication ! 

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled"? 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed. 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : — . 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou couldst develope, if that withered tongue 
Might tell us Avhat those sightless orbs have seen, 

How the world looked when it was fresh and young. 
And the great deluge still had left it green ! — 

Or was it then so old that history's pages 

Contained no record of its early ages "? 

Still silent ! — Incommunicative elf ! 

Art sworn to secrecy "? Then keep thy vows ! 
But, prithee, tell us something of thyself, — 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house : 
Since in the Avorld of spirits thou hast slumbered. 
What hast thou seen — what strange adventures num- 
bered "? 



200 HORACE SMITH, 

Since first thy form was in this box extended, 

We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations ; 

The Roman empire has begun and ended, — 

New worlds have risen, — we have lost old nations, — 

And countless kings have into dust been humbled, 

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 

Marched armies o'er thy tomb, with thundering tread, 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, — 

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, 

When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder 1 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed. 

The nature of thy private life unfold ! 
A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast, 

And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled : — 
Have children cHmbed those knees, and kissed that face] 
What was thy name and station, age and race *? 

Statue of flesh ! — Immortal of the dead ! 

Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
Posthumous man, — who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 

And standest undecayed within our presence ! 
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning. 
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning ! 

Why should this worthless tegument endure, 

If its undying guest be lost forever 1 
Oh ! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 

In living virtue, — that when both must sever, 
Although corruption may our frame consume. 
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! 




?u /, 



'?irior^^ 



MOORE. 



I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 



I SATT iiom the beach, when the morning was shining, 
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ; 

I came when the smi o'er that beach was declining. 
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. 

45 



202 MOORE. 

And such is the fate of our life's early promise, 
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known ; 

Each wave that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, 
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. 

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning 

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night ; — 

Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morn- 
ing, 
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best 

light. 

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, 
"When passion first waked a new life through his 
frame, 
And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burn- 
ing. 
Gave out a,ll its sweets to love's exquisite flame ! 



WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS. 

Were not the sinful Mary's tears 
An ofiering worthy Heaven, 

When o'er the faults of former years. 
She wept — and was forgiven ] 



WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS. 203 




%^^ 



When, bringing every balmy sweet 
Her day of luxury stored, 

She o'er her Saviour's hallowed feet 
The precious odors poured ; — 



And wiped them with that golden hair, 
Where once the diamond shone ; 

Though now those gems of grief were there 
Which shine for GOD alone I 



204 MOORE. 

Were not those sweets, so humbly shed- 
That hair — those weepm^ eyes — 

And the snnk heart, that inly bled — 
Heaven's noblest sacrifice 1 

Thou, that hast slept in error's sleep. 
Oh, wouldst thou wake in Heaven, 

Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep, 
" liOve much" and be forgiven ! 



on ! HAD WE SOME BKIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF 
OUR OWN. 

On ! had we some bright little isle of our own. 
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone. 
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, 
And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers ; 
Where the sun loves to pause 

With so fond a delay. 
That the night only draws 

A thin veil o'er the day ; 
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live. 
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give. 

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime. 
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time ; 
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, 
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there. 
With affection as free 

From decline as the bowers. 



DRINK TO HER. 



205 



And, with hope, like the bee, 
Living always on flowers, 
Our life should resemble a long day of light. 
And our death come on, holy and calm as the night. 




"^-■^ 



DRINK TO HER. 



Drink to her, who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh. 

The girl, who gave to song 
What gold could never buy. 

Oh ! woman's heart was made 
For minstrel hands alone ; 

46 



206 MOORE. 

By other fingers played, 
It yields not half the tone. 

Then here's to her, who long 
Hath waked the poet's sigh, 

The girl, who gave to song 
What gold could never buy. 

At Beauty's door of glass. 

When Wealth and Wit once stood. 
They asked her, " Which might pass ?' 

She answered, " He who could." 
With golden key Wealth thought 

To pass — but 'twould not do : 
While Wit a diamond brought. 

Which cut his bright way through. 
So here's to her, who long 

Plath waked the poet's sigh. 
The girl, who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. 

The love that seeks a home 

Where wealth or grandeur shines, 

Is like the gloomy gnome. 

That dwells in dark gold mines.- 

But oh ! the poet's love 

Can boast a brighter sphere ; 

Its native home's above. 

Though woman keeps it here. 

Then drink to her, who long- 
Hath Avaked the poet's sigh. 

The girl, who gave to song 
What gold could never buy. 



MONTGOMERY. 




>- #^ 



RECLUSE. 



A FOUNTAIN issuing into light 
Before a marble palace, threw 

To heaven its column, pure and bright, 
Returning thence in showers of dew ; 

But soon a humbler course it took, 

And glid away a nameless brook. 



208 MONTGOMERY. 

Flowers on its grassy margin sprang, 
Flies o'er its eddying surface played, 

Birds midst the alder-branches sang. 

Flocks through the verdant meadows strayed ; 

The weary there lay down to rest, 

And there the halcyon built her nest. 

'Twas beautiful, to stand and watch 
The fountain's crystal turn to gems, 

And from the sky such colors catch. 
As if 'twere raining diadems ; 

Yet all was cold and curious art. 

That charmed the eye, but missed the heart. 

Dearer to me the little stream, 
Whose unimprisoned waters run. 

Wild as the changes of a dream, 

By rock and glen, through shade and sun ; 

Its lovely links had power to bind 

In welcome chains my wandering mind. 

So thovight I, when I saw the face, 

By happy portraiture revealed, 
Of one, adorned with every grace, 

— Her name and date from me concealed, 
But not her story ; — she had been 
The pride of many a splendid scene. 

* She cast her glory round a court. 
And frolicked in the gayest ring. 
Where fashion's high-born minions sport. 
Like sparkling fireflies on the wing ; 



THE FIELD OF THE WORLD. 209 

But thence, when love had touched her soul, 
To nature and to truth she stole. 

From din, and pageantry, and strife, 

'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains. 

She treads the paths of lowly hfe. 
Yet in a bosom-circle reigns. 

No fountain — scattering diamond showers. 

But the sweet streamlet — watering flowers. 



THE FIELD OF THE WORLD. 

Sow in the morn thy seed. 
At eve hold not thine hand ; 

To doubt and fear give thou no heed, 
Broadcast it o'er the land. 

Beside all waters sow. 

The highway furrows stock. 

Drop it where thorns and thistles grow. 
Scatter it on the rock. 

The good, the fruitful ground, 

Expect not here nor there ; 
O'er hill and dale, by plots, 'tis found ; 

Go forth, then, everywhere. 

47 



210 MONTGOMERY. 

Thou know'st not which may thrive, 

The late or early sown : 
Grace keeps the precious germs ahve, 

When and wherever strown. 

And duly shall appear 

In verdure, beauty, strength, 

The tender blade, the stalk, the ear. 
And the full corn at length. 

Thou canst not toil in vain ; 

Cold, heat, and moist, and dry, 
Shall foster and mature the grain. 

For garners in the sky. 

Thence, when the glorious end. 
The day of God is come, 

The angel-reapers shall descend. 
And Heaven cry, " Harvest home." 




HEBER. 



THE HUNTING-PARTY. 



And forth lie fared ; while from her turret high 
That smiling form beheld his hunter crew ; 

Pleased she beheld, whose unacquainted eye 
Found in each varying scene a pleasure new. 



212 



HEBER. 



Nor yet had pomp fatigued her sated view, 
Nor custom palled the gloss of royalty. 

like some gay child, a simple bliss she drew 
From every gaud of feudal pageantry, 
And every broidered garb that swept in order by. 



.-£^^3?-^^§tS^^I^^^ : 




And, sooth, it was a brave and antic sight. 

Where plume, and crest, and tassel wildly blending, 

And bended bow, and javelin flashing bright, 

Marked the gay squadron through the copse descend- 



THE HUNTING-PARTY. 213 

The greyhound, -svith his silken leash contending, 
Wreathed the lithe neck ; and on the falconer's hand. 

With restless perch and pinions broad depending. 
Each hooded goshawk kept her eager stand, 
And to the courser's tramp loud rang the hollow land. 

And over all, in accents sadly sweet. 

The mellow bugle poured its plaintive tone, 

That echo joyed such numbers to repeat. 

Who, from dark glade or rock of pumice-stone, 
Sent to the woodland nymphs a softer moan ; 

While listening far from forth some fallow brown. 
The swinked ploughman left his work undone ; 

And the glad schoolboy from the neighboring town 

Sprang o'er each prisoning rail, nor recked his master's 
fi'own. 

Her warm cheek pillowed on her ivory hand. 
Her long hair waving o'er the battlement, 

In silent thought Ganora kept her stand. 
Though feebly now the distant bugle sent 
Its fading sound ; and, on the brown hill's bent. 

Nor horse, nor hound, nor hunter's pomp was seen. 
Yet still she gazed on empty space intent. 

As one who, spell-bound, on some haunted green 

Beholds a faery show, the twilight elms between. 



48 



214 HEBER. 



SONG. 



Why that neck of marble whiteness, 
Why that hair of sunny brightness, 

Form of perfect mould ; 
Why those fringed eyelids screening, 
Lights of love and liquid meaning, 

While the heart is cold "? 

Shame on her whose pride or malice 
With a lover's anguish dallies ! 
Scorn our scattered reason rallies : 
Thou shalt mourn thy tyrant sallies, 
Ere that thou art old — young Alice, 
Ere that thou art old ! 



I SEE THEM ON THEIR WINDING WAY. 

I SEE them on their winding way, 
Above their ranks the moonbeams play, 
And nearer yet, and yet more near, 
The martial chorus strikes the ear. 

They're lost and gone, — the moon is past, 
The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast, 
And fainter, fainter, fainter still, 
The dim march Avarbles up the hill. 



I SRE THEM ON THEIR, WINDING WAY 



215 



Again, again, — the pealing drum, 

The clashing horn — they come ! they come ! 

And lofty deeds and daring high, 

Blend with their notes of victory. 




Forth, forth, and meet them on their way, 
The tramphng hoof brooks no delay ; 
The thrilling fife, the peahng drum, 
How late — but oh, how loved they come ! 



GRAHAME. 







THE SABBATH. 



How still the morning of the hallowed day ! 
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. 
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 



THE SABBATH. 217 

Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, 
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze. 
Sounds the most faint attract the ear — the hum 
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, 
The distant bleating midway up the hill. 
Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. 
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, 
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ; 
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 
Warbles his heaven-tuned song ; the lulling brook 
Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen ; 
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke 
O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals 
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. 

With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods : 
The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil's din 
Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. 
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, 
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, 
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; 
And, as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls. 
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. 

But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. 
Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day. 
On other days, the man of toil is doomed 
To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground 
Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold 
And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree ; 
But on this day, embosomed in his home. 
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; 
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy 

49 



218 



GRAHAME. 



Of giving thanks to God — -not thanks of form, 
A word and a grimace — but reverently, 
With covered face and upward, earnest eye. 




Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day ; 
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe 
The morning air pure from the city's smoke ; 
While wandering slowly up the river-side. 
He meditates on Him whose power he marks 



THE SABBATH. 219 

In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, 
As in the tiny dew-bent floAvers that bloom 
Around the roots ; and while he thus surveys 
With elevated joy each rural charm, 
He hopes (yet fears presumption in the hope) 
To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends. 

But now his steps a welcome sound recalls : 
Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile, 
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe : 
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground ; 
The aged man, the bowed down, the blind. 
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes 
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased ; 
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach 
The house of God — these, spite of all their ills, 
A glow of gladness feel ; with silent praise 
They enter in ; a placid stillness reigns. 
Until the man of God, worthy the name, 
Opens the book, and reverentially 
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues. 
The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes, 
Then swells into a diapason full : 
The people rising sing, " with harp, with harp, 
And voice of psalms ;" harmoniously attuned 
The various voices blend ; the long-drawn aisles, 
At every close, the hngering strain prolong. 
And now the tubes a softened stop controls ; 
In softer harmony the people join. 
While hquid whispers from yon orphan band, 
Hecall the soul from adoration's trance, 
And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears. 
Again the organ-peal, loud, rolling, meets 



220 GRAHAME, 

The hallelujahs of the choir. Sublime 
A thousand notes symphoniously ascend, 
As if the whole were one, suspended high 
In air, soaring heavenward : afar they float, 
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch : 
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close, 
Yet thinks he hears it still ; his heart is cheered : 
He smiles on death ; but ah ! a wish Avill rise — 
" Would I were now beneath that echoing roof! 
No lukewarm accents from my Hps should flow ; 
My heart would sing ; and many a Sabbath-day 
My steps should thither turn ; or, wandering far 
In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow, 
There would I bless His name who led me forth 
From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets- 
Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow 
Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye." 

It is not only in the sacred fane 
That homage should be paid to the Most High : 
There is a temple, one not made with hands, — 
The vaulted firmament. Far in the Avoods, 
Almost beyond the sound of city chime. 
At intervals heard through the breezeless air ; 
When not the limberest leaf is seen to move. 
Save where the linnet lights upon the spray ; 
Where not a floAv'ret bends its little stalk, 
Save Avhen the bee alights upon the bloom — 
There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love. 
The man of God will pass the Sabbath-noon ; 
Silence his praise : his disembodied thoughts, 
Loosed from the load of Avords, Avill high ascend 
Beyond the empyreal. 



THE SABBATH. 



221 




Nor yet less pleasing at tlie heavenly throne, 
The Sabbath service of the shepherd boy ! 
In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled 
To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill. 
Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry. 
Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son; 
Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold. 
And wonders why he Aveeps : the volume closed. 
With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings 
The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned 
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof. 
Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth 
Pines unrewarded by a thankless state. 
Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen, 
The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps, 

50 



222 GRAHAME. 

Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands 

Keturning homeward from the house of prayer. 

In peace they home resort. Oh, blissful days ! 

When all men worship God as conscience wills. 

Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew, 

A virtuous race to godliness devote. 

What though the skeptic's scorn hath dared to soil 

The record of their fame ! What though the men 

Of worldly minds have dared to stigmatize 

The sister-cause, Religion and the Law, 

With Superstition's name ! — yet, yet their deeds. 

Their constancy in torture and in death — 

These on tradition's tongue still live, these shall 

On history's honest page be pictured bright 

To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse 

Disdains the servile strain of fashion's choir, 

May celebrate their unambitious names. 

With them each day was holy, every hour 

They stood prepared to die, a people doomed 

To death — old men, and youths, and simple maids. 

With them each day was holy ; but that morn 

On which the angel said, " See where the Lord 

Was laid," joyous arose — to die that day 

Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways. 

O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought 

The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks, 

Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks 

A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat 

With greensward gay, and flowers that strangers seem 

Amid the heathery wild, that all around 

Fatigues the eye : in solitudes like these 

Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled 



THE SABBATH. 223 

A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws ; 
There, leaning on his spear (one of the array 
That in the times of old had scathed the rose 
On England's banner, and had powerless struck 
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host, 
Yet ranged itself to aid his son dethroned). 
The lyart veteran heard the word of God 
By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured 
In gentle stream : then rose the song, the loud 
Acclaim of praise ; the wheeling plover ceased 
Her plaint ; the solitary place was glad. 
And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear 
Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note. 
But years more gloomy followed, and no more 
The assembled people dared, in face of day, 
To worship God, or even at the dead 
Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce, 
And thunder-peals compelled the men of blood 
To couch within their dens ; then dauntlessly 
The scattered few Avould meet, in some deep dell 
By rocks o'er-canopied, to hear the voice, 
Their faithful pastor's voice : he by the gleam 
Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book. 
And words of comfort spake : over their souls 
His accents soothing came — as to her young 
The heath-fowl's plumes, when at the close of eve 
She gathers in her mournful brood dispersed 
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads 
Fondly her Avings, close nestling 'neath her breast 
They cherished cower amid the purple blooms. 




^^m/ty- 





IQRKE WHITE. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 



"When marshalled on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestnd the sky ; 

One star alone, of all the train. 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 225 

Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 

From every host, from every gem ; 
But one alone the Saviour speaks, 

It is the Star of Bethlehem. 

Once on the raging seas I rode, 

The storm Avas loud — the night Avas dark ; 
The ocean yawned — and rudely blowed 

The wind that tossed my foundering bark. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze, 

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 

When suddenly a star arose, — 
It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all, 
It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 

And through the storm and dangers' thrall 
It led me to the port of peace. 

Now safely moored — my perils o'er, 

I'U sing, first in night's diadem. 
Forever and forevermore. 

The Star— the Star of Bethlehem ! 



22G KIRKE WHITE. 



PREMONITION OF DEATH. 

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme, 
With self-rewarding toil ; thus far have sung 

Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 
The lyre which I in early. days have strung: 
And now my spirits faint, and I have hung 

The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, 

On the dark cypress ; and the strings which rung 

With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er. 
Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard no 
more. 

And must the harp of Judah sleep again ? 

Shall I no more reanimate the lay 'i 
Oh ! Thou who visitest the sons of men. 

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, 

One little space prolong my mournful day ; 
One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 

I am a youthful traveller in the way. 
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee. 
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free. 



BYEON. 




VENICE. 



I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 

A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 

As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 

A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 

O'er the far times, when many a subject land 



228 BYRON. 

Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
isles ! 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 

Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 

A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers 

From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 

In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 

Her palaces are crumbling to the shore. 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 

States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die. 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 

The pleasant place of all festivity. 
The revel of the earth, ihe masque of Italy ! 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 

Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 

Above the dogeless city's vanished sway; 

Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 

And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er. 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 



VENICE. 221) 

The beings of tlie mind are not of clay ; 

Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in ns a brighter ray 

And more beloved existence : that which Fate 

Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 

First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age. 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 

And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 

And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 

Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 

And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 

I saw or dreamed of such, — but let them go, — 

They came hke truth, and disappeared like dreams ; 

And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 

Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking E,eason deems 

Such over-weening phantasies unsound. 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

I've taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 

52 



230 BYllON. : 

Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 

Yet was I born where men are proud to be, — 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 

The inviolate island of the sage and free. 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 



Perhaps I loved it Avell ; and should I lay 

My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 

Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 

My hopes of being remembered in my hne 
"With my land's language : if too fond and far 

These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are. 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honored by the nations — let it be — 

And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." 

Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 

The thorns which I have reaped are of the tree 

I planted ; they have torn me, and I bleed : 
I should have known what fruit would spring from such 
a seed. 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 

And, annual marriage now no more renewed. 



VENICE. 



2:ii 



The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her Avidowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 




Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, 

Over the proud Place Avhere an Emperor sued. 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice Avas a queen Avith an unequalled doAver. 



2:^2 BYRON. 

The Suabian sued, and noAV the Austrian reigns — 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 

Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 

The sunshine for a while, and downward go 

Like lauwine loosened from the mountain's belt ; 

Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass. 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 

But is not Doria's menace come to pass '? 

Are they not hridled ? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done. 

Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 

Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, 

Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre ; 

Her very byword sprung fr-om "sdctory. 
The " Planter of the Lion," which through fire 

And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 

Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 

Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can bhght. 

Statues of glass — all shivered — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 



VENICE. 233 

But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 

Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 

Too oft remind her who and what enthrals. 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 

And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war, 

Kedemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 

Of the o'ermastered victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands, his idle scimitar 

Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 

Thy choral memory of the Bard divine. 

Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 

Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 

Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen should not 

Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 

I loved her from my boyhood ; she to me 

Was as a fairy city of the heart. 
Rising hke water-columns from the sea, 

Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 

53 



234 BYRON. 

And Otway, RadclifFe, Schiller, Sliakspeare's art, 
Had stamped her image in me, and even so, 

Although I found her thus, we did not part ; 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe. 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 



EVENING TWILIGHT. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 

There comes a token like a scorpion's sting. 

Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 

Aside forever : it may be a sound-; — 

A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 

A flower — the wind — the ocean — Avliich shall wound. 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly 
bound ; 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this Hghtning of the mind. 

But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface 

The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesigned, 

When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind — 

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead — anew, 
The mourned, the loved, the lost — too many ! — yet how 
few ! 



EVENING TWILIGHT. 235 

But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 

A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 

Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which loas the mightiest in its old command. 

And is the loveliest, and must ever be 

The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand ; 

Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave, the lords of earth and sea, 

The common,wealth of kings, the men of E.ome ! 

And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 

Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 

Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ] 
Tliy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 

More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night ; 

Sunset divides the sky with her ; a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 

Of blue Friuh's mountains ; heaven is free 

From clouds, but of all colors seems to be, — 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, — 

Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest ! 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 

With her o'er half the lonely heaven ; but still 



23G 



BYRON. 



Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
llolled o'er the peak of the far Ehaetian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaimed her order : gently flows 

The deep-dyed Brenta,^where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 
Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it 
glows, — 




Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar. 
Comes down upon the waters, all its hues, 



EVENING TWILIGHT, 23T 

From the ricli sunset to tlic rising star, 

Their magical variety diffuse : 

And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 

Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new color as it gasps away, 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. 

There is a tomb in Arqua ; — reared in air. 

Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover : here repair 

Many familiar with his well-sung woes. 

The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 

From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; 

The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride — 

An honest pride — and let it be their praise. 

To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 

And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 

For those who their mortality have felt. 

And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed 

51: 



238 BYRON. 

In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 

Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, 

For they can lure no further ; and the ray 

Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, . 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 

And shining in the brawhng brook, whereby. 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 

With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 

Idlesse it seem, hath its morahty. 
If from society we learn to live, 

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive : 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 

The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 

In melancholy bosoms, such as were 

Of moody texture from their earliest day. 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay. 

Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 

Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 



MRS. SOUTHEY. 




THE PAUPER'S DEATHBED. 



Tread softly — bow the head- 
In reverent silence bow — 

No passing bell doth toll — 

Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 



240 MRS. SOUTHEY. 

Stranger ! however great, 

Witli lowly reverence bow ; 
There's one in that poor shed — 
One by that paltry bed — 
Greater than thou. 

Beneath that beggar's roof, 

Lo ! death does keep his state ; 
Enter — no crowds attend — 
Enter — no guards defend 
TJiis palace gate. 

That pavement, damp and cold, 

No smiling courtiers tread ; 
One silent woman stands, 
Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 



No mingling voices sound — 

An infant wail alone ; 
A sob suppressed — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 
The parting groan. 



O change ! — O wondrous change !- 
Burst are the prison bars — 

This moment there^ so low, 

So agonized, and now 
Beyond the stars ! 



THE MARINER'S HYMN. 241 

O change ; — stupendous change ! 

There lies the soulless clod ; 
The Sun eternal breaks — 
The new mimortal wakes — 

Wakes with his God. 



THE MARINER'S HYMN. 

Launch thy bark, mariner ! 

Christian, God speed thee ! 
Let loose the rudder-bands — 

Good angels lead thee ! 
Set thy sails warily, 

Tempests will come ; 
Steer thy course steadily, 

Christian, steer home ! 

Look to the weather-bow. 

Breakers are round thee ; 
Let fall the plummet now, 

Shallows may ground thee. 
Eeef in the foresail, there ! 

Hold the helm fast ! 
So — let the vessel wear — 

There swept the blast. 

" What of the night, watchman 1 

What of the night V 
" Cloudy — all quiet — 

No land yet — all's right !" 



242 MRS. SOUTHEY. 

Be wakeful, be vigilant — 

Danger may be 
At an hour when all seemeth 

Securest to thee. 

How ! gains the leak so fast 1 

Clear out the hold — 
Hoist up thy merchandise, 

Heave out thy gold; — 
There — let the ingots go — 

Now the ship rights ; 
Hurra ! the harbor 's near — 

Lo, the red lights ! 

Slacken not sail yet 

At inlet or island ; 
Straight for the beacon steer. 

Straight for the high land ; 
Crowd all thy canvas on, 

Cut through the foam — 
Christian ! cast anchor now — 

Heaven is thy home ! 





KEBLE. 



MORNING. 



Hues of the rich unfolding morn, 
That, ere the glorious sun be born, 
By some soft touch invisible 
Around his path are taught to swell ;- 



244 KEBLE. 

Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay, 
That dancest forth at openmg day, 
And brushmg by Avith joyous wing, 
Wakenest each Kttle leaf to sing ; — 

Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam. 
By which deep grove and tangled stream. 
Pay, for soft rains in season given. 
Their tribute to the genial heaven ; — 

. Why waste your treasures of delight 
Upon our thankless, joyless sight ; 
Who day by day to sin awake. 
Seldom of Heaven and you partake ! 

Oh ! timely happy, timely wise. 
Hearts that with rising morn arise ! 
Eyes that the beam celestial view, 
Which evermore makes all things new ! 

New every morning is the love 
Our wakening and uprising prove ; 
Through sleep and darkness safely brought, 
Restored to life, and power, and thought. 

New mercies, each returning day. 

Hover around us while we pray ; 

New perils past, new sins forgiven, 

New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven. 

If on our daily course our mind 
Be set to hallow all we find. 



MORNING. 24£ 

New treasures still, of countless price, 
God will provide for sacrifice. 

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be 
As more of Heaven in each we see : 
Some softening gleam of love and prayer 
Shall dawn on every cross and care. 

As for some dear familiar strain 
Untired we ask, and ask again, 
Ever, in its melodious store. 
Finding a spell unheard before : 

Such is the bliss of souls serene, 

When they have sworn, and steadfast mean. 

Counting the cost, in all to espy 

Their God, in all themselves deny. 

O could we learn that sacrifice. 
What lights would all around us rise ! 
How would our hearts with wisdom talk 
Along life's dullest, dreariest Avalk ! 

We need not bid, for cloistered cell, 
Our neighbor and our work faroAvell, 
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high 
For sinful man beneath the sky ; 

The trivial round, the common task, 
AVould furnish all we ought to ask ; 
Room to deny ourselves ; a road 
To bring us, daily, nearer God. 

56 



21G KEBLE. 

Seek we no more ; content with these, 
Let present Rapture, Comfort, Ease, 
As Heaven shall bid them, come and go 
The secret this of Rest below. 

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love 
Fit us for perfect Rest above ; 
And help us, this and every day, 
To live more nearly as we pray. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

What sudden blaze of song- 
Spreads o'er th' expanse of Heaven "? 
In waves of light it thrills along, 
Th' angelic signal given — 
" Glory to God !" from yonder central fire 
Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry choir ; 

Like circles widening round 

Upon a clear blue river, 
Orb after orb, the wondrous sound 
Is echoed on forever : 
" Glory to God on high, on earth be peace. 
And love towards men of love — salvation and release." 

Yet stay, before thou dare 
To join that festal throng ; 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 



247 




^ ■"-?S4'^^^^' 



Listen and mark Avhat gentle air 



First stirred the tide of song ; 
'Tis not, " the Savionr born in David's home, 
To whom for power and health obedient worlds should 



come: 



'Tis not, "the Christ the Lord:"— 

AVith fixed adoring look 
The choir of Angels caught the word, 

Nor yet their silence broke : 



248 KEBLE. 

But when they heard the sign, where Christ should be, 
In sudden h'ght they shone and heavenly harmony. 

Wrapped in Plis swaddling bands, 

And in His manger laid. 
The Hope and Glory of all lands 
Is come to the world's aid: 
No peaceful home upon His cradle smiled, 
Guests rudely went and came, where slept the royal Child. 

But where Thou dwellest, Lord, 

No other thought should be. 
Once duly welcomed and "adored. 
How should I part with Thee ! 
Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace 
The single heart to be Thy sure abiding-place. 

Thee, on the bosom laid 
Gf a pure virgin mind, 
In quiet ever, and in shade. 
Shepherd and sage may find ; 
They, who have bowed untaught to Nature's sway. 
And they, who follow Truth along her star-paved way. 

The pastoral spirits first 

Approach Thee, Babe divine. 
For they in lowly thoughts are nursed. 
Meet for Thy lowly shrine ; 
Sooner than they should miss where Thou dost dwell, 
Angels from Heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell. 

Still, as the day comes round 
For thee to be revealed. 



GOOD FRIDAY. 2V) 



By wakeful shepherds Thou art found, 
Abiding in the field. 
All through the wintry heaven and chill night air, 
In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer. 

O faint not ye for fear — 

"What though your wandering sheep, 
Reckless of Avhat they see and hear, 
Lie lost in wilful sleep 1 
High Heaven in mercy to your sad annoy 
Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy. 

Think on th' eternal home. 
The Saviour left for you ; 
Think on the Lord most holy, come 
To dwell with hearts untrue : 
So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways. 
And in the darkness sing your carol of high x^raise. 



GOOD FRIDAY. 



Is it not strange, the darkest hour 

That ever dawned on sinful earth • 

Should touch the heart with softer power 
For comfort, than an Angel's mirth "? 
That to the Cross the mourner's eye should turn 
Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn '? 

Sooner than where the Easter sun 
Shines glorious on yon open grave, 

57 



250 



KEBLE. 



And to and fro the tidings run, 

" Who died to heal, is risen to save V 




Sooner than where upon the Saviour's friends 
The very Comforter in hght and love descends 1 



Yet so it is : for duly there 

The bitter herbs of earth are set. 



GOOD FRIDAY. 251 

Till tempered by the Saviour's prayer, 
And with the Saviour's life-blood Avet, 
They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, 
Soft as imprisoned martyr's deathbed calm. 

All turn to sweet — but most of all 
That bitterest to the lip of pride, 
AVhen hopes presumptuous fade and fall, 
Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried, 
Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear 
AVhen rude and selfish spirits breathe too near. 

Then like a long-forgotten strain 

Comes sweeping o'er the heart forlorn 
What sunshine hours had taught in vain 
Of Jesus suffering shame and scorn, 
As in all lowly hearts He suffers still, 
AVhile we triumphant ride and have the world at will. 

His pierced hands in vain would hide 

His face from rude reproachful gaze, 
His ears are open to abide 

The wildest storm the tongue can raise, 
He who with one rough word, some early day, 
Their idle world and them shall sweep for aye away. 

But we by Fancy may assuage 

The festering sore by Fancy made, 
DoAvn in some lonely hermitage 
Like Avounded pilgrims safely laid, 
Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distressed. 
That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest. 



252 KEBLE. 

O ! shame beyond the bitterest thought 

That evil spirit ever framed, 
That sinners know what Jesus wrought, 
Yet feel their haughty hearts untamed — 
That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, 
Should wince and fret at this world's little loss. 

Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry. 

Let not Thy blood on earth be spent — 
Lo, at Thy feet I fainting lie, 

Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent. 
Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes 
Wait hke the parched earth on April skies. 

Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, 

O let my heart no further roam, 
'Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears, 
Long since— O call Thy wanderer home ; 
To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side, 
AVhere only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide. 



EVENING. 



'Tis gone, that bright and orbed blaze, 
Fast fading from our wistful gaze ; 
Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight 
The last faint pulse of quivering light. 



In darkness and in weariness 

The traveller on his way must press, 



EVENING. 253 

No gleam to watch on tree or tower, 
Whiling away the lonesome hour. 

Sun of my soul ! Thou Saviour dear, 
It is not night if Thou be near : 
Oh ! may no earth-born cloud arise 
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes. 

When round Thy wondrous works below 
My searching rapturous glance I throAV, 
Tracing out Wisdom, PoAver, and Love, 
In earth or sky, in stream or grove ; — 

Or by the light Thy words disclose 
Watch Time's full river as it flows, 
Scanning Thy gracious Providence, 
Where not too deep for mortal sense : — 

"When with dear friends sweet talk I liold,- 
And aU the flowers of life unfold ; 
Let not my heart within me burn, 
Except in all I Thee discern. 

When the soft dews of kindly sleep 
My wearied eyelids gently steep. 
Be my last thought, hoAV sweet to rest 
Forever on my Saviour's breast. 

Abide with me from morn till eve. 
For without Thee I cannot live ; 
Abide with me when night is nigh. 
For without Thee I dare not die. 

58 



254 



KEBLE. 



Thou Framer of the light and dark, 
Steer through the tempest Thine own ark : 
Amid the howling Avintry sea 
We are in port if we have Thee. 




The Rulers of this Christian land, 
'Twixt Thee and us ordained to stand, — 
Guide Thou their course, O Lord, aright, 
Let all do all as in Thy sight. 



EVENING. 

Oh ! by Thine own sad burthen, borne 
So meekly up the hill- of scorn, 
Teach Thou Thy Priests, their daily cross 
To bear as Thine, nor count it loss ! 

If some poor wandering child of Thine 
Have spurned, to-day, the voice divine, 
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin ; 
Let him no more lie down in sin. 

Watch by the sick : enrich the poor 
With blessings from Thy boundless store : 
Be every mourner's sleep to-night 
Like infant's slumbers, pure and light. . 

Come near and bless us when we wake. 
Ere through the world our Avay wc take : 
Till in the ocean of Thy love 
We lose ourselves in Heaven above. 



\^ 



SHELLEY. 




THE CLOUD. 



I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear Hght sliades for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 



THE CLOUD. 257 

AVlien rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing- hail, 

And whiten the green plains under. 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast ; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

"While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers. 

Lightning my pilot sits. 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 

It struggles and howls at fits ; 
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea ; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
"Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The Spirit he loves remains : 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 
And his burning plumes outspread. 

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 
When the morning star shines dead. 

As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 

59 



258 SHELLEY. 

An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when smiset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above. 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 

By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear. 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer ; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 

Like a swarm of golden bees. 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone. 

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-Uke shape, 

Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang hke a roof. 

The mountains its columns be. 



TO A SKYLARK. 259 

The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the milhon-colored bow ; 
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 

While the moist earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the sky : 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain. 

The pavihon of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and simbeams, with their convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 



TO A SKYLAEK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher, 

From the earth thou springest 



2G0 SHELLEY. 

Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are brightening. 

Thou dost float and run ; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven. 
In the broad dayhght 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narroAVS 

In the white dawn clear. 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee 1 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see. 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 



TO A SKYLARK. 2G1 

Like a poet hidden 

111 the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympath)^ with hopes and fears it heeded not : 



Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : 

Like a glowworm golden 

In a dell of dew. 
Scattering unbeholdeii 
Its aerial hue 
Among the fl.owers and grass, which screen it from the 
view. 

Like a rose embowered 

In its OAvn green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered. 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 

On the twinkling grass, 
Eain-awakened flowers, 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

on 



262 SHELLEY. 

Teacli US, sprite or bird, 

"What sweet thoughts are thine : 

I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal. 

Or triumphal chant, 
Matched with thine would be all 

But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain '? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains 1 

What shapes of sky or plain 1 
What love of thine own kind "? what ignorance of pain 1 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be : 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee : 
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep. 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream 1 

We looked before and after, 
And pine for what is not : 



TO A SKYLARK. 2G3 



Our sincerest laugliter 



With some pain is fraught ; 



Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 



Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 
That thy brain must know, 

Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 




c/i;-'!^^ c-ax^ ^y ^ 



i-'-'f-Z /::i'-7-L</ 



HEMANS. 



WASHINGTON'S STATUE. 



Yes ! rear thy guardian hero's form 

On thy. proud soil, thou Western World ! 
A watcher through each sign of storm, 
O'er freedom's flag unfurled. 



THE BETTER LAND. 265 

There, as before a shrine, to bow, 

Bid thy true sons their children lead : 
The language of that noble brow 
For all things good shall plead. 



The spirit reared in patriot fight, 

The virtue born of home and hearth. 
There calmly throned, a holy light 
Shall pour o'er chainless earth. 

And let that work of England's hand, 

Sent through the blast and surges' roar, 
So girt with tranquil glory, stand 
For ages on thy shore ! 

Such, through all time, the greetings be, 
That with the Atlantic billow sweep ! 
Telling the mighty and the free 
Of brothers o'er the deep ! 



THE BETTER LAND. 

" I HEAR thee speak of the better land. 
Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 
Mother ! O, where is that radiant shore "? 
Shall we not seek it, and Aveep no more 1 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows. 
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs V 
" Not there, not there, my child !" 

61 



266 



HEMANS. 



" Is it where the feathery palm trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies 1 
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze. 
And strange, bright birds on their starry wings 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ]" 
" Not there, not there, my child !" 







" Is it far away, in some region old, 

Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold !- 



THE RHINE. 267 

Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond liglits up the secret mine, 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ? — 
Is it there, sweet mother ! that better land "?" 
" Not there, not there, my child ! 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — 
Sorrow and death may not enter there : 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, — 
It is there, it is there, my child !" 



THE RHINE. 



It is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving. 



I see the bright flood shine ! 



Sing on the march with every banner waving- 
Sinsr brothei-s ! 'tis the Rhine ! 



"to 



The Rhine ! the Rhine ! our own imperial river ! 

Be glory on thy track ! 
"We left thy shores, to die or to deliver — 

We bear thee freedom back ! 

Hail ! hail ! my childhood knew thy rush of water, 

Even as my mother's song ; 
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, 

And heart and arm grew strong ! 



268 



HEMANS. 



Koll proudly on ! — brave blood is with thee sweeping, 

Poured out by sons of thine, 
"Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, 

Like thee, victorious Rhine ! 

Home ! home ! Thy glad wave hath a tone of greeting, 

Thy path is by my home, 
Even now my children count the hours till meeting: 

O ransomed ones ! I come. 




Go tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never ! 

Sound on by hearth and shrine ! 
Sing through the hills that thou art free forever — 

Lift up thy voice, O E.hine ! 



A PARTING SONG. 2G9 



A PARTING SONG. 



When Avill ye think of me, my friends "? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the last red light, the farewell of day. 
From the rock and the river is passing away — 
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught, 
And the heart grows burdened Avith tender thought. 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends 1 

When will ye think of me ] — 
AVhen the rose of the rich midsummer time 
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime — 
'When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fied. 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread - 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, sweet friends "? 

When Avill ye think of me "? — 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody — 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream — 
Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends ! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound. 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 
So let it be ! 

G'2 








G-.TATLdertoTL. 




XIOM - 



KEATS. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 



Thou still unravished bride of quietness ! 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 271 

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
Of deities or mortals, or of both, 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady "? 
What men or gods are these "? what maidens loath ■? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape '? 

What pipes and timbrels ] What wild ecstasy "? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared. 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold lover, never, never, canst thou kiss, 
Though Avinning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bhss, 

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

Forever piping songs forever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

Forever warm, and still to be enjoyed. 
Forever panting and forever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice 1 
To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 



272 KEATS. 

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest 1 
What little town by river or sea-shore, 
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn 1 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 

Thou, silent form ; dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste. 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
" Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 

Ye know on earth, and all yc need to know. 



TO AUTUMN. 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; 
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core : 



TO AUTUMN. 



273 



To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set buddmg more, 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells. 




Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store "? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 

63 



274 KEATS. 

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ; 
And sometime Hke a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring 1 Ay, where are they 1 
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, 

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft. 
And gathering swallows tAvitter in the skies. 



SONNET TO KOSCIUSKO. 

Good Kosciusko ! thy great name alone 

Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling ; 
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing 

Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone. 

And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown, 

The names of heroes, burst from clouds conceaHng, 
Are changed to harmonies, forever stealing 

Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne. 



SONNET TO KOSCIUSKO. 



275 



It tells me too, that on a happy day, 

When some good spirit walks upon the earth, 

Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore. 
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth 

To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away 

To where the great God lives for evermore. 




MOTHERWELL. 




THE SUMMER MONTHS. 



They come ! the merry summer months 

Of beauty, song, and flowers ; 
They come ! the gladsome months that bring 

Thick leafiness to bowers. 
Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad. 

Fling cark and care aside, 



THE SUMMER MONTHS. 277 

Seek silent hills, or rest thyself 

Where peaceful waters glide ; 
Or, underneath the shadow vast 

Of patriarchal tree, 
Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky 

In rapt tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch 

Is grateful to the hand, 
And, like the kiss of maiden love, 

The breeze is sweet and bland ; 
The daisy and the buttercup 

Are nodding courteously. 
It stirs their blood with kindest love 

To bless and welcome thee : 
And mark how with thine own thin locks — 

They now are silver gray — 
That blissful breeze is wantoning, 

And whispering, " Be gay !" 

There is no cloud that sails along 

The ocean of yon sky 
But hath its own winged mariners 

To give it melody : 
Thou seest their glittering fans outspread 

All gleaming like red gold. 
And hark ! with shrill pipe musical. 

Their merry course they hold. 
God bless them all, these little ones. 

Who far above this earth. 
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, 

And vent a nobler mirth. 

64 



278 MOTHERWELL. 

But soft ! mine ear upcauglit a sound, 

From yonder wood it came ; 
The spirit of the dim, green glade 

Did breathe his own glad name ; — 
Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird. 

That apart from all his kind. 
Slow spells his beads monotonous 

To the soft western wind ; 
Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! he sings again — 

His notes are void of art, 
But simplest strains do soonest sound 

The deep founts of the heart ! 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon 

For thought-crazed wight like me, 
To smell again these summer flowers 

Beneath this summer tree ! 
To suck once more in every breath 

Their little souls away. 
And feed my fancy with fond dreams 

Of youth's bright summer day. 
When, rushing forth like untamed colt. 

The reckless truant boy 
Wandered through green woods all day long, 

A mighty heart of joy ! 

I'm sadder now, I have had cause ; 

But oh ! I'm proud to think 
That each pure joy-fount loved of yore 

I yet delight to drink ; — 
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream. 

The calm, unclouded sky. 



THE SUMMER MONTHS. 271) 

Still mingle music with my dreams, 

As in the days gone by. 
When summer's loveliness and light 

Fall round me dark and cold, 
I'll bear indeed Hfe's heaviest curse, — 

A heart that hath waxed old. 



HOOD. 




FAIR INES. 



Oh, saw ye not fair Ines ■? 

She's gone into the west, 
To dazzle when the sun is down, 

And rob the Avorld of rest : 



FAIR INES. 281 

She took our daylight with her, 

The smiles that we love best, 
With morning blushes on her cheek, 

And pearls upon her breast. 

Oh turn again, fair Ines, 

Before the fall of night, 
For fear the moon should shine alone. 

And stars unrivalled bright ; 
And blessed will the lover be 

That walks beneath their hght, 
And breathes the love against thy cheek 

I dare not even write ! 

Would I had been, fair Ines, 

That gallant cavalier 
Who rode so gayly by thy side, 

And whispered thee so near ! — 
Were there no bonny dames at home, 

Or no true lovers here. 
That he should cross the seas to win 

The dearest of the dearl 

1 saAv thee, lovely Ines, 

Descend along the shore. 
With bands of noble gentlemen, 

And banners Avaved before ; 
And gentle youth and maidens gay. 

And snowy plumes they wore ; 
It would have been a beauteous dream, — 

If it had been no more ! 

65 



282 HOOD. 

Alas, alas, fair Ines, 

She went away with song, 
With music waiting on her steps, 

And shoutings of the throng ; 
But some were sad and felt no mirth. 

But only music's wrong. 
In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, 

To her you've loved so long. 

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, 

That vessel never bore 
So fair a lady on its deck. 

Nor danced so light before, — 
Alas for pleasure on the sea. 

And sorrow on the shore ! 
The smile that blest one lover's heart 

Has broken many more ! 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

One more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 

Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly. 
Lift her with care ; 

Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 283 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements ; 
Whilst the wave constantly 

Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 

Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornftilly ; 
Think of her mournfrilly. 

Gently and humanly ; 
Not of the stains of her, 
All that remains of her 

Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 

Eash and undutiful : 
Past aU dishonor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 

One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 

Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 

Escaped fr'om the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses ; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 

Where was her home ■? 



284 HOOD. 

Who was her father 1 

Who was her mother ? 

Had she a sister "? 

Had she a brother 1 

Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all others ■? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
Oh ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 

Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly. 

Feelings had changed : 
Love, by harsh evidence. 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river. 

With many a light 
From window and casement. 
From garret to basement, 
She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver ; 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 285 

But not the dark arch, 

Or the black flowmg river : 
Mad from Hfe's history, 
Glad to death's mystery, 

Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 

Out of the world! 



In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran, — 
Over the brink of it, 
Picture it — think of it. 

Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it. 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ; 

Fashioned so slenderly. 
Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly. 

Decently, — kindly, — 
Smooth, and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them. 

Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 

Thro' muddy impurity, 

66 



286 HOOD. 



As when with the daring 



Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity. 

Into her rest. — 
Cross her hands humbly 
As if praying dumbly. 

Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness. 

Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness, 

Her sins to her Saviour ! 



MACAULAY. 



KOM>E 





PRltAORDIA. 



THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS. 

Now slain is King Amulius, 

Of the great Sylvian line, 
Who reigned in Alba Longa, 

On the throne of Aventine. 
Slain is the Pontiff Gamers, 

Who spake the words of doom : 
" The children to the Tiber, 

The mother to the tomb." 

In Alba's lake no fisher 
His net to-day is flinging : 

On the dark rind of Alba's oaks 
To-day no axe is ringing : 




288 



MACAULAY. 



The yoke hangs o'er the manger : 
The scythe lies in the hay : 

Through all the Alban villages 
No work is done to-day. 

And every Alban burgher 

Hath donned his whitest gown ; 
And every head in Alba 

Weareth a poplar crown ; 
And every Alban door-post 

With boughs and flowers is gay : 
For to-day the dead are living ; 

The lost are found to-day. 




They were doomed by a bloody king : 

They were doomed by a lying priest : 
They were cast on the raging flood : 

They were tracked by the raging beast : 
Kaging beast and raging flood 

Alike have spared the prey ; 
And to-day the dead are living : 

The lost are found to-day. 



THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS. 



289 




The troubled river knew them, 

And smoothed his yellow foam, 
And gently rocked the cradle 

That bore the fate of Rome. 
The ravening she-wolf knew them. 

And licked them o'er and o'er, 
And gave them of her own fierce milk, 

Kich with raw flesh and gore. 
Twenty winters, twenty springs, 

Since then have rolled away ; 
And to-day the dead are living : 

The lost are found to-day. 



Blithe it was to see the twins, 

Eight goodly youths and tall, 
Marching from Alba Longa 

To their old grandsire's hall. 
Along their path fresh garlands 

Are hung from tree to tree : 
Beside them stride the pipers, 

Piping a note of glee. 



290 



MACAULAY. 




On the right goes Romulus, 

With arms to the elbows red, 
And in his hand a broadsword, 

And on the blade a head — 
A head in an iron helmet. 

With horse-hair hanging down, 
A shaggy head, a swarthy head. 

Fixed in a ghastly frown — 
The head of King Amulius, 

Of the great Sylvian line. 
Who reigned in Alba Longa, 

On the throne of Aventine. 



On the left side goes Remus, 
With wrists and fingers red, 



THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS. 



291 







(l5i 



And in his hand a boar-spear, 

And on the point a head — 
A wrinkled head and aged, 

With silver beard and hair. 
And holy fillets round it. 

Such as the pontiffs wear — 
The head of ancient Gamers, 

Who spake the words of doom : 
" The children to the Tiber, 

The mother to the tomb." 

Two and two behind the twins 

Their trusty comrades go, 
Four-and-forty valiant men. 

With club, and axe, and bow. 
On each side every hamlet 

Pours forth its joyous crowd, 
Shouting lads and baying dogs. 

And children laughing loud. 
And old men weeping fondly 

As Rhea's boys go by. 
And maids who shriek to see the heads, 

Yet, shrieking, press more nigh. 

So they marched along the lake ; 

They marched by fold and stall, 
By cornfield and by vineyard, 

Unto the old man's hall. 

In the hall-gate sate Capys, 

Capys, the sightless seer ; 
From head to foot he trembled, 

As Romulus drew near. 




292 



MACAULAY. 



And up stood stiff his thin white hair, 
And his bhnd eyes flashed fire : 

"Hail! foster-child of the wondrous nurse! 
Hail ! son of the wondrous sire ! 




" But thou — what dost thou here 

In the old man's peaceful hall "? 
What doth the eagle in the coop, 

The bison in the stall ] 
Our corn fills many a garner ; 

Our vines clasp many a tree ; 
Our flocks are white on many a hill ; 

But these are not for thee. 



" For thee no treasure ripens 

In the Tartessian mine : 
For thee no ship brings precious bales 

Across the Libyan brine : 



THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS. 



293 



Thou slialt not clvink from amber ; 

Thou shalt not rest on down ; 
Arabia shall not steep thy locks, 

Nor Sidon tinge thy gown. 




" Leave gold and myrrh and jewels, 

Rich table and soft bed, 
To them who of man's seed are born. 

Whom woman's milk hath fed. 
Thou wast not made for lucre, 

For pleasure, nor for rest ; 
Thou, that art sprung from the War-god's loins, 

And hast tugged at the she-Avolf's breast. 




294 



MACAULAY. 




" From sunrise unto sunset 

All earth shall hear thy fame : 
A glorious city thou shalt build, 

And name it by thy name : 
And there, unquenched through ages, 

Like Vesta's sacred fire. 
Shall live the spirit of thy nurse. 

The spirit of thy sire. 




>Nt)g 



" The ox toils through the furrow, 

Obedient to the goad ; 
The patient ass, up flinty paths, 

Plods with his weary load : 
With whine and bound the spaniel 

His master's Avhistle hears ; 
And the sheep yields her patiently 

To the loud clashing shears. 



" But thy nurse will hear no master, 

Thy nurse will bear no load ; 
And woe to them that shear her. 

And woe to them that goad ! 
When all the pack, loud baying. 

Her bloody lair surrounds. 
She dies in silence, biting hard 

Amidst the dying hounds. 



" Pomona loves the orchard. 
And Liber loves the vine ; 

And Pales loves the straw-built shed 
Warm Avith the breath of kine ; 



THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS. 



295 




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And Venus loves the whispers 
Of pKglited youth and maid, 

In April's ivory moonlight, 
Beneath the chestnut shade. 



" But thy father loves the clashing 

Of broadsword and of shield : 
;^, He loves to drink the steam that reeks 

From the fresh battle-field : 
He smiles a smile more dreadful 

Than his own dreadful frown, 
When he sees the thick black cloud of smoke 

Go up from the conquered town. 

" And such as is the War-god, 

The author of thy line. 
And such as she who suckled thee, 

Even such be thou and thine. 
Leave to the soft Campanian 
His baths and his perfumes ; 
. Leave to the sordid race of Tyre 
j' Their dyeing-vats and looms : 






MACAULAY. 




Leave to the sons of Carthage S P C> t- I A 

Tlie rudder and the oar: 
Leave to the Greek his marble nymphs i I M A 

And scrolls of wordy lore. 





" Thine, Roman, is the pilum : 

Roman, the sword is thine, 
The even trench, the bristhng mound 

The legion's ordered line ; 
And thine the wheels of triumph. 

Which with their laurelled train 
Move slowly up the shouting streets 

To Jove's eternal fane. 



" Beneath thy yoke the Volscian 

Shall vail his lofty brow : 
Soft Capua's curled revellers 

Before thy chairs shall bow : 
The Lucumoes of Arnus 

Shall quake thy rods to see ; 
And the proud Samnite's heart of steel 

Shall yield to only thee. 

" The Gaul shall come against thee 
From the land of snow and night : 

Thou shalt give his fair-haired armies 
To the raven and the kite. 

'• The Greek shall come against thee. 

The conqueror of the East. 
Beside him stalks to battle 

The huge earth-shaking beast, 





THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS. 



297 



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The beast on whom the castle 

With all its guards doth stand, 
The beast who hath between his eyes 

The serpent for a hand. 
First march the bold Epirotes, 

Wedged close with shield and spear ; 
And the ranks of false Tarentum 

Are glittering in the rear. 



" The ranks of false Tarentum 

Like hunted sheep shall fly : 
In vain the bold Epirotes 

Shall round their standards die : 
And Apennine's gray vultures 

Shall have a noble feast 
On the fat and the eyes 

Of the huge earth-shaking beast. 

" Hurrah ! for the good Aveapons 
That keep the War-god's land. 





298 



MACAULAY. 





Hurrah ! for Rome's stout pilum 

In a stout Eoman hand. 
Hurrah ! for Eome's short broadsword, 

That through the thick array 
Of levelled spears and serried shields 

Hews deep its gory way. 

" Hurrah ! for the great triumph 

That stretches many a mile. 
Hurrah ! for the wan captives 

That pass in endless file. 
Ho ! bold Epirotes, whither 

Hath the Red King ta'en flight ? 
Ho ! dogs of false Tarentum, 

Is not the gown washed white ] 

" Hurrah ! for the great triumph 

That stretches many a mile. 
Hurrah ! for the rich dye of Tyre, 

And the fine web of Nile, 
The helmets gay with plumage 

Torn from the pheasant's wings. 
The belts set thick with starry gems 

That shone on Indian kings, 
The urns of massy silver, 

The goblets rough with gold. 
The many-colored tablets bright 

With loves and wars of old, 
The stone that breathes and struggles, 

The brass that seems to speak ; — 
Such cunning they who dwell on high 

Have given unto the Greek. 





THE TROPHECY OF CAPYS. 



299 






" Hurrah ! for Manius Curius, 

The bravest son of E,ome, 
Thrice in utmost need sent forth, 

Thrice drawn in triumph home. 
Weave, weave, for Manius Curius 

The third embroidered gown : 
Make ready the third lofty car 

And twine the third green crown ; 
And yoke the steeds of Rosea 

With necks Hke a bended bow ; 
And deck the bull, Mevania's bull. 

The bull as white as snow. 

" Blest and thrice blest the Roman 
Who sees Rome's brightest day. 

Who sees that long victorious pomp 
Wind down the Sacred Way, 




300 



MACAULAY. 




And through the bellowing Forum, 
And round the Suppliant's Grove, 

Up to the everlasting gates 
Of Capitolian Jove. 

" Then where, o'er two bright havens, 

The towers of Corinth frown ; 
Where the gigantic King of Day 

On his own Khodes looks down ; 
Where soft Orontes murmurs 

Beneath the laurel shades ; 
Where Nile reflects the endless length 

Of dark-red colonnades ; 




THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS. 



301 




M 



Where in the still deep water, 
Sheltered from Avaves and blasts, 

Bristles the dusky forest 
Of Byrsa's thousand masts ; 

AVhere fur-clad hunters wander 
Amidst the northern ice ; 

Where through the sand of morning-land 



The camel bears the spice ; 
here Atlas flings his shadow 
Far o'er the western foam, 
tail be great fear on all who hi 
The mighty name of Rome." 




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70 



MES. BROWNING. 

LOVED ONCE. 

I CLASSED, appraising once, 
Earth's lamentable sounds ; the welladay, 

The jarring yea and nay, 
The fall of kisses on unanswering clay, 
The sobbed farewell, the welcome mournfuUer ; — 

But all did leaven the air 
"With a less bitter leaven of sure despair. 

Than these words — " I loved once." 

And who saith, " I loved once 1" 
Not angels, whose clear eyes, love, love, foresee. 

Love through eternity. 
Who, by To Love, do apprehend To Be. 
Not God, called Love, his noble crown-name, — casting 

A hght too broad for blasting! 
The great God changing not from everlasting, 

Saith never, " I loved once." 

Nor ever the " Loved once," 
Dost Thou say, Victim-Christ, misprized friend 

The cross and curse may rend ; 
But, having loved. Thou lovest to the end ! 



LOVED ONCE. ?.03 

It is man's saying — man's. Too weak to move 

One sphered star above, 
Man desecrates the eternal God-word Love 

With his No More, and Once. 

How say ye, " We loved once," 
Blasphemers 1 Is your earth not cold enow, 

Mourners, without that snow"? 
Ah, friends ! and would ye wrong each other so ^ 
And could ye say of some, whose love is known, 

Whose prayers have met your own. 
Whose tears have fallen for you, whose smiles have shone. 

Such words, " We loved them once 1" 

Could ye, " We loved her once," 
Say calm of me, sweet friends, when out of sight "? 

When hearts of better right 
Stand in between me and your happy light 1 
And when, as flowers kept too long in the shade. 

Ye find my colors fade. 
And all that is not love in me, decayed ] 

Such words — Ye loved me once ! 

Could ye, " We loved her once," 
Say cold of me, when further put away 

In earth's sepulchral clay'? 
When mute the lips which deprecate to-day % — 
Not so ! not then — least then ! AVlien Life is shriven. 

And Death's full joy is given, — 
Of those who sit and love you up in Heaven, 

Say not, " We loved them once." 



304 MRS. BROWNING. 

Say never, ye loved once ! 
God is too near above, the grave, below. 

And all our moments go 
Too quickly past our souls, for saying so. 
The mysteries of Life and Death avenge 

Affections light of range — 
There comes no change to justify that change, 

"Whatever comes — loved once ! 

And yet that word of once 
Is humanly acceptive ! Kings have said 

Shaking a discrowned head, 
" We ruled once," — dotards, " We once taught and led" — 
Cripples once danced i' the vines — and bards approved, 

W^ere once by scornings, moved : 
But love strikes one hour — love. Those never loved, 

Who dream that they loved once. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 

It is a place where poets crowned 

May feel the heart's decaying, — 
It is a place Avhere happy saints 

May weep amid their praying : 
Yet let the grief and humbleness. 

As low as silence, languish ! 
Earth surely now may give her calm 

To whom she gave her anguish. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 305 

O poets ! from a maniac's tongue 

Was poured the deathless singing ! 
O Christians ! at your cross of hope 

A hopeless hand was clinging ! 
O men ! this man, in brotherhood, 

Your weary paths beguiling. 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 

And died Avhile ye were smiling ! 

And now, what time ye all may read 

Through dimming tears his story, 
How discord on the music fell, 

And darkness on the glory, 
And how, when one by one, sweet sounds 

And wandering lights departed. 
He wore no less a loving face 

Because so broken-hearted; 

He shall be strong to sanctify 

The poet's high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

In meeker adoration : 
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, 

By wise or good forsaken ; 
Named softly, as the household name 

Of one whom God hath taken. 

AVith quiet sadness and no gloom, 

I learn to think upon him, 
With meekness, that is gratefulness 

To God whose heaven hath won him — 

71 



306 MRS. BROWNING. 

Who suffered once the madness-cloud, 
To His own love to blind him ; 

But gently led the blind along 

Where breath and bird could find him ; 

And wrought within his shattered brain, 

Such quick poetic senses, 
As hiUs have language for, and stars 

Harmonious influences ! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass, 

Kept his within its number ; 
And silent shadows from the trees 

Refreshed him like a slumber. 

Wild timid hares were drawn from Avoods 

To share his home-caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes 

With sylvan tendernesses : 
The very world, by God's constraint, 

From falsehood's ways removing, 
Its women and its men became 

Beside him true and loving. 

But Avhile, in blindness he remained 

Unconscious of the guiding. 
And things provided came without 

The sweet sense of providing, 
He testified this solemn truth. 

Though frenzy desolated — 
Nor man, nor nature satisfy, 

Whom only God created ! 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 307 

Like a sick child that knoweth not 

His mother while she blesses 
And drops upon his burning brow, 

The coolness of her kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around — 

" My mother ! where's my mother V — 
As if such tender words and looks 

Could come from any other ! — 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart, 

He sees her bending o'er him ; 
Her face all pale from watchful love, 

The unweary love she bore him I — 
Thus, woke the poet from the dream. 

His life's long fever gave him, 
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, 

Which closed in death, to save him ! 

Thus 1 oh, not thus ! no type of earth 

Could image that awaking, 
AVherein he scarcely heard the chant 

Of seraphs round him breaking, 
Or felt the new immortal throb 

Of soul from body parted ; 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew 

" My Saviour ! not deserted !" 

Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when 

The cross in darkness rested. 
Upon the Victim's hidden face. 

No love was manifested % 



308 MRS. BROWNING. 

What frantic hands outstretched have e'er 

The atoning drops averted, 
What tears have washed them from the soul, 

That one should be deserted \ 

Deserted ! God could separate 

From His own essence rather: 
And Adam's sins have swept between 

The righteous Son and Father; 
Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry, 

His universe hath shaken — 
It went up single, echoless, 

" My God, I am forsaken !" 

It went up fi"om the Holy's lips 

Amid his lost creation, 
That, of the lost, no son should use 

Those words of desolation ; 
The earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, 

Should mar not hope's fruition. 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see 

His rapture, in a vision ! 



THE LADY'S "YES." 

" Yes !" I answered you last night ; 

" No !" this morning, Sir, I say: 
Colors, seen by candlelight, 

Will not look the same by day. 



THE LADY'S "YES." 309 

When the viols played their best, 
Lamps above, and laughs below — 

Love me sounded like a jest, 
Fit for Yes, or fit for No. 

Call me false, or call me free — 

VoAV, whatever light may shine, 
No man on your face shall see 

Any grief for change on mine. 

Yet the sin is on us both — 

Time to dance is not to woo — 
"Wooer light makes fickle troth — 

Scorn of me recoils on you : 

Learn to win a lady's faith 

Nobly, as the thing is high ; 
Bravely, as for life and death — 

With a loyal gravity. 

Lead her from the festive boards. 

Point her to the starry skies. 
Guard her, by your truthful words, 

Pure from courtship's flatteries. 

By your truth she shall be true — 

Ever true, as wives of yore — 
And her Yes, once said to you, 

Shall be Yes for evermore. 

72 



310 MRS. BROWNING. 



THE SLEEP. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 

Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is, 
For gift or grace, surpassing this — 

" He giveth His beloved, sleep "?" 

What would we give to our beloved 1 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved, 

The poet's star- tuned harp, to sweep, 
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse. 
The monarch's croAvn, to light the brows "? — ■ 

" He giveth His beloved, sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved "? 
A little faith, all undisproved, 

A little dust, to overweep. 
And bitter memories, to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake. 

" He giveth His beloved, sleep." 

" Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, 
But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep : 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber, when 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
O men, with wailing in your voices ! 



THE SLEEP. 311 

O delved gold, the wallers heap ! 

strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God makes a silence through you all, 

And " giveth His beloved, sleep." 

His dews drop mutely on the hill. 
His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed. 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth His beloved, sleep." 

Yea ! men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man,- 

Confirmed, in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say — and through the word 

1 think their happy smile is heard — 
" He giveth His beloved, sleep." 

For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees through tears the juggler's leap, — 
Would now its wearied vision close. 
Would childhke on His love repose, 

Who " giveth His beloved, sleep !" 

And friends, dear friends, — when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep, 
Let one, most loving of you all. 
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall — 

He giveth His beloved, sleep." 



312 MRS. BROWNING. 



SERAPH AND POET. 



The seraph sings before the manifest 
God-one, and in the burning of the Seven, 
And with the full life of consummate Heaven 
Heaving beneath him like a mother's breast 
Warm with her first-born's slumber in that nest ! 
The poet sings upon the earth grave-riven ; 
Before the naughty world soon self-forgiven 
For wronging him ; and in the darkness prest 
From his own soul by worldly weights. Even so. 
Sing, seraph with the glory ! Heaven is high — 
Sing, poet with the sorrow ! Earth is low. 
The universe's inward voices cry 
" Amen !" to either song of joy and woe — 
Sing, seraph, — poet, — sing on equally. 



TENNYSON. 




THE BROOK. 



" Here, by this brook, we parted; I to the East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late : 
One whom the strong sons of the world despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, 

n 



314 TENNYSON. 

And mellow metres more than cent for cent ; 
Nor could he understand how money breeds, 
Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself could make 
The thing that is not as the thing that is. 

had he Hved ! In our school-books we say, 
Of those that held their heads above the crowd, 
They flourished then or then ; but life in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only touched 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the Avood stands in a mist of green. 
And nothing perfect ; yet the brook he loved , 
For which, in branding summers of Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air, 

1 panted, seems, as I re-listen to it. 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, 

To me that loved him ; for ' O brook,' he says, 

' O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, 

' AVhence come you V and the brook, why not ] replies. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 

Or slip between the ridges. 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 



THE BROOK. 315 

" Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, 
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley hridge. 
It has more ivy ; there the river ; and there 
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

" But Philip chattered more than brook or bird ; 
Old Philip ; all about the fields you caught 
His weary daylong chirping, like the dry 
High-elbowed grigs that leap in summer grass. 

I wind about, and in and out. 

With here a blossom sailing. 
And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel, 
AVith many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel. 



816 TENNYSON. 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 

" O darling Katie Willows, his one child ! 
A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn, 
Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and heart with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back — the week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins then, 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost. 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
And pushed at Philip's garden-gate. The gate. 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge, 
Stuck : and he clamored from a casement, ' Run,' 
To Katie somewhere in the walks below, 
' Run, Katie !' Katie never ran : she moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine bowers, 
A little fluttered, Avith her eyelids down, 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon. 

"What Avas if? less of sentiment than sense 
Had Katie ; not illiterate ; neither one 



THE BROOK. 317 

Who dabbling in the fount of fictive tears, 
And nursed by mealy-mouthed philanthropies, 
Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. 

" She told me. She and James had quarrelled. Why 'i 
What cause of quarrel "? None, she said, no cause ; 
James had no cause : but when I prest the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering jealousies 
Which angered her. Who angered James 1 I said. 
But Katie snatched her eyes at once from mine. 
And sketching with her slender pointed foot 
Some figure like a wizard's pentagram 
On garden gravel, let my query pass 
Unclaimed, in flushing silence, till I asked 
If James were coming, ' Coming every day,' 
She answered, ' ever longing to explain, 
But evermore her father came across 
With some long-winded tale, and broke him short ; 
And James departed vext with him and her.' 
How could I help her 1 ' Would I — was it wrong V 
(Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke) 
' O would I take her father for one hour. 
For one half-hour, and let him talk to me !' 
And even while she spoke, I saw where James 
Made toward us, like a wader in the surf. 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-sweet. 

" O Katie, what "I suffered for your sake ! 
For in I went, and called old Phihp out 
To show the farm : full willingly he rose ; 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling lanes 

74 



318 TENNYSON. 

Of his Avheat-suburb, babbling as he went. 

He praised his land, his horses, his machines ; 

He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs ; 

He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-hens ; 

His pigeons, who in session on their roofs 

Approved him, bowing at their own deserts : 

Then from the plaintive mother's teat he took 

Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each. 

And naming those, his friends, for whom they were : 

Then crost the common into Darnley chase 

To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern 

Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 

Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, 

He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said : 

' That was the four-year-old I sold the Squire.' 

And there he told a long long-winded tale 

Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass, 

And how it was the thing his daughter wished. 

And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 

To learn the price, and what the price he asked. 

And how the bailiff swore that he was mad, 

But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 

He gave them line ; and five days after that 

He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 

Who then and there had offered something more. 

But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; 

He knew the man ; the colt would fetch its price ; 

He gave them Hne : and how by chance at last 

(It might be May or April, he forgot. 

The last of April or the first of May) 

He found the bailiff riding by the farm. 

And, talking from the point, he drew him in. 



THE BROOK. 310 

And there he mcUowed all his heart with ale, 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand. 

" Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he, 
Poor feUow, could he help it "? recommenced, 
And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 
Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho, 
Reform, White Eose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest. 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose, 
And with me Philip, talking still ; and so 
We turned our foreheads from the falling sun. 
And following our own shadows thrice as long 
As when they followed us from Philip's door, 
Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content 
E.e-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses : 
I linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses ; 



320 TENNYSON. 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

Yes, men may come and go ; and these are gone, 

All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps. 

Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire. 

But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome 

Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and he. 

Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words 

Eemains the lean P. W. on his tomb : 

I scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks 

By the long wash of Australasian seas 

Far off, and holds her head to other stars. 

And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone." 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn. 
Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings ; 
And he looked up. There stood a maiden near, 
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Di^ddes threefold to show the fruit within : 
Then, wondering asked her, "Are you from the farm]" — 
" Yes," answered she. — " Pray stay a little : pardon me : 
What do they call you r'—" Katie."— " That Avere 
strange. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 321 

What sumamer'—"AVillows."—" No!"— "That is my 

name." — 
" Indeed !" and here he looked so self-perplext, 
That Katie laughed, and laughing blushed, till he 
Laughed also, but as one before he wakes. 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. 
Then looking at her ; " Too happy, fresh and fair, 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom. 
To be the ghost of one who bore your name 
About these meadows, twenty years ago." 

" Have you- not heard 1" said Katie, "we came back. 
We bought the farm we tenanted before. 
Am I so like her '? so they said on board. 
Sir, if you knew her in her English days. 
My mother, as it seems you did, the days 
That most she loves to talk of, come with me. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field : 
But she — you will be welcome — O, come in !" 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 

Eode the six hundred. 
"Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns !" he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Uode the six. hundred. 

75 



322 TENNYSON. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade !" 
Was there a man dismayed ] 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs hut to do and die. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them. 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell, 

Hode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare. 
Flashed as they turned in air. 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered; 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not — 

Not the six hundred. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 323 




-'? -'-; 



Cannon to right of tliem, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered ; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 



324 TENNYSON. 

All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade ] 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Nohle six hundred ! 



BEYANT. 







A FOREST HYMN. 



The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 

76 



326 BRYANT. 

The sound of anthems ; in the darklmg wood, 
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, 
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplication. For his simple heart 
Might not resist the sacred influences 
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 
His spirit with the thought of boundless power 
And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
That our frail hands have raised ] Let me, at least. 
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood. 
Offer one hymil — thrice happy, if it find 
Acceptance in His ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in the sun. 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in the breeze, 
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow. 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
Among their branches, till, at last, they stood. 
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark. 
Fit shrine for humble Avorshipper to hold 



A FOREST HYMN. 327 

Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 

These Avinding aisles, of human pomp or pride 

Report not. No fantastic carvings show 

The boast of our vain race to change the form 

Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fiU'st 

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 

That run along the summit of these trees 

In music ; thou art in the cooler breath 

That from the inmost darkness of the place 

Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, 

The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 

Here is continual worship ; Nature here, 

In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, 

From perch to perch, the solitary bird 

Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs. 

Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots 

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 

Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace. 

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — 

By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 

Almost annihilated — not a prince, 

In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 

E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest floAver 

With scented breath, and look so like a smile, 

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 



328 BRYANT. 

An emanation of the indwelling Life, 
A visible token of the upholding Love, 
That are the soul of this wide universe. 

My heart is awed within me when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
Li silence, round me — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo! all grow old and die — but see again, 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost 
One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet. 
After the flight of untold centuries, 
The freshness of her far beginning lies 
And yet shall He. Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his arch enemy Death — yea, seats himself 
Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre, 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 

There have been holy men who hid themselves 
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 
The generation born with them, nor seemed 
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
Around them ; — and there have been holy men 



THANATOPSIS. 329 

AVho deemed it -were not well to pass life thus. 
But let me often to these solitudes 
Retire, and in thy presence reassure 
My feeble "\irtue. Here its enemies, 
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 
And tremble and are still. Oh, God ! when thou 
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 
With all the waters of the firmament, 
The swift dark whirhvind that uproots the woods 
And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities — who forget not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by 1 
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad unchained elements to teach 
AVho rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty. 
And to the beautiful order of thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



THANATOPSIS. 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for her gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

11 



330 BRYANT. 

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 

And healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. 

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air, — 

Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being," shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements. 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings. 



THANATOPSIS. 



331 



The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 




All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods— rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all. 

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 



332 BRYANT. 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 

Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands. 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound. 

Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there : 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 

In silence from the living, and no friend 

Take note of thy departure 1 All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come. 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages glides away, the sons of men. 

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 

In the full strength of years, matron, and maid. 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side. 

By those, Avho in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 



THE PAST. 33:? 

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave. 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



THE FAST. 

Thou unrelenting Past ! 
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, 

And fetters, sure and fast. 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

Far in thy realm withdrawn 
Old empires sit in suUenness and gloom, 

And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 

Childhood, with all its mirth, 
Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, 

And last, Man's Life on earth. 
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 

Thou hast my better years. 
Thou hast my earlier friends — the good — the kind. 

Yielded to thee with tears — 
The venerable form — the exalted mind. 

78 



3;U BRYANT. 

My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense, 

And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 

In vain — thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence depart ; 

Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken heart. 

In thy abysses hide 
Beauty and excellence unknown — to thee 

Earth's wonder and her pride 
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea ; 

Labors of good to man. 
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, — 

Love, that 'midst grief began, 
And grew with years, and faltered not in death. 

Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered ; 

With thee are silent fame, 
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 

Thine for a space are they — 
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last ; 

Thy gates shall yet give way. 
Thy bolts sliall fall, inexorable Past ! 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, 



THE PAST. 3?,5 

Sliall then come forth to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 

They have not perished — no ! 
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, 

Smiles, radiant long ago, 
And features, the great soul's apparent seat. 

All shall come back, each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again ; 

Alone shall Evil die, 
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 

And then shall I behold 
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung. 

And her, who, still and cold. 
Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young. 



HALLECK. 



MAKCO BOZZARIS. 



At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppHance bent. 

Should tremble at his power : 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror: 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring ; 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden-bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. 
True as the steel of their tried blades. 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 
There had the glad earth drunk their blood 

On old Plataea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there. 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare. 

As quick, as far as they. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 337 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream Avas his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 

And death-shots falhng thick and fast 
As hghtnings from the mountain-cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 

God — and your native land !" 



They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell. 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile when rang their proud hurrah. 

And the red field was won : 
Then saw in death his eyehds close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 



Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! 
Come to the mother, when she feels, 

79 



338 HALLECK. 

For the first time, her firstborn's breath ; 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
. Come in consumption's ghastly form. 
The earthquake shock, the ocean-storm, 
Come when the heart beats high and warm. 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine 
And thou art terrible — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier ; 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, Avhen his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood bought — 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men : 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 



339 



And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 
Blew o'er tlie Haytian seas. 




Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree. 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb : 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long-loved, and for a season gone ; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 



340 HALLECK. 

For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells : 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch, and cottage bed ; 
Her soldier, closing with the foe, 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears : 

And she, the mother of thy boys. 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, — 

The memory of her buried joys, — 
And even she who gave thee birth. 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, — 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, 
One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born to die. 



WILLIS. 




THE HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 



Freshly the cool breath of the coining eve 
Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl 

80 



342 WILLIS. 

Felt it upon her forehead. She had lam 
Smce the hot noontide in a breathless trance — 
Her thin pale fingers clasped within the hand 
Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, 
Like the dead marble, white and motionless. 
The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, 
And, as it stirred with the awakening wind. 
The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, 
And her slight fingers moved, and heavily 
She turned upon her pillow. He was there — 
The same loved, tireless watcher, and she looked 
Into his face until her sight grew dim 
With the fast-falling tears ; and, with a sigh 
Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, 
She gently drew his hand upon her lips, 
And kissed it as she wept. The old man sunk 
Upon his knees, and in the drapery 
Of the rich curtains buried up his face ; 
And when the twilight fell, the silken folds 
Stirred with his prayer, but the slight hand he held 
Had ceased its pressure — and he could not hear, 
In the dead, utter silence, that a breath 
Came through her nostrils — and her temples gave 
To his nice touch no pulse — and, at her mouth, 
■ He held the lightest curl that on her neck 
Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze 
Ached with its deathly stillness 

It was night — 

And, softly, o'er the Sea of Galilee, 

Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore. 

Tipped with the silver sparkles of the moon. 



HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIllUS. :^43 

The breaking- waves played low upon the beach 
Their constant music, but the air beside 
Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice, 
In its rich cadences unearthly sweet. 
Seemed like some just-born harmony in the air, 
Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock. 
With the broad moonlight falling on his brow, 
He stood and taught the people. At his feet 
Lay his small scrip, and pilgrim's scallop-shell. 
And staff — for they had waited by the sea 
Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and prayed 
For his wont teachings as he came to land. 
His hair was parted meekly on his brow, 
And the long curls from off his shoulders fell, 
As he leaned forward earnestly, and still 
The same calm cadence, passionless and deep — 
And in his looks the same mild majesty — 
And in his mien the sadness mixed with power — 
Filled them with love and wonder. Suddenly, 
As on his words entrancedly they hung. 
The crowd divided, and among them stood 
Jairus the Ruler. With his flowing robe 
Gathered in haste about his loins, he came, 
And fixed his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew 
The twelve disciples to their Master's side ; 
And silently the people shrunk away. 
And left the haughty Ruler in the midst 
Alone. A moment longer on the face 
Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze, 
And, as the twelve looked on him, by the light 
Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear 
Steal to his silver beard ; and, drawing nigh 
Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem 



344 WILLIS. 

Of his coarse mantle, and with trembUng hands 
Pressed it upon his lips, and murmured low, 
" Master ! my daugliier /" — .... 

The same silvery light, 

That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, 

Slept on the Kuler's lofty capitals, 

As at the door he stood, and welcomed in 

Jesus and his disciples. All was still. 

The echoing vestibule gave back the slide 

Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam 

Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor. 

Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, 

As Jairus led them on. With hushing steps 

He trod the winding stair; but ere he touched 

The latchet, from within a whisper came, 

" Trouble the Master not — -for she is dead .'" 

And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, 

And his steps faltered, and his broken voice 

Choked in its utterance ; — but a gentle hand 

Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear 

The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, 

" She is not dead — hut sJeepeth." 

They passed in. 
The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns 
Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke 
Curled indolently on the chamber walls. 
The silken curtains slumbered in their folds — 
Not even a tassel stirring in the air — 
And as the Saviour stood beside the bed. 
And prayed inaudibly, the Kuler heard 
The quickening division of his breath 
As he grcAV earnest inwardly. There came 



HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 345 

A gradual brightness o'er his cahn, sad face ; 
And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved 
The silken curtains silently apart. 
And looked upon the maiden. 

Like a form 
Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — 
The linen vesture folded on her breast, 
And over it her white transparent hands, 
The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. 
A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, 
And in her nostrils, spi;:itually thin, 
The breathing curve was mockingly like life ; 
And round beneath the faintly tinted skin 
Kan the light branches of the azure veins ; 
And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, 
Matching the arches pencilled on her brow. 
Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose 
Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears 
In curls of glossy blackness, and about 
Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung, 
Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 
'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised 
Her hand from off" her bosom, and spread out 
The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, 
" Maiden ! Arise I" — and suddenly a flush 
Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips 
And through her cheek the rallied color ran ; 
And the still outline of her graceful form 
Stirred in the hnen vesture ; and she clasped 
The Saviour's hand, and flxing her dark eyes 
FuU on his beaming countenance — arose ! 

81 



346 



WILLIS, 




DEDICATION HYMN. 



The perfect world by Adam trod, 
Was the first temple — ^built by God- 
His fiat laid the corner-stone, 
And heaved its pillars, one by one. 



DEDICATION HYMN. 347 

He hung its starry roof on high. — 
The broad illimitable sky ; 
He spread its pavement, green and bright, 
And curtained it with morning light. 

The mountains in their places stood — 
The sea — the sky — and " all was good ;" 
And, when its first pure praises rang, 
The " morning stars together sang." 

Lord ! 'tis not ours to make the sea 
And earth and sky a house for thee ; 
But in thy sight our off' ring stands — 
A humbler temple, " made with hands." 



LONGFELLOW. 




THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 



" Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 
That Castle by the Sea 1 

Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously. 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA. 349 

" And fain it would stoop downward 

To the mirrored wave below ; 
And fain it would soar upward 

In the evening's crimson glow." 

" Well have I seen that castle, 

That Castle by the Sea, 
And the moon above it standing, 

And the mist rose solemnly." 

" The winds and the waves of ocean, 

Had they a merry chime 'i 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ■?" 

" The winds and the waves of ocean. 

They rested quietly, 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 

And tears came to mine eye." 

" And sawest thou on the turrets 

The King and his royal bride 1 
And the wave of their crimson mantles 1 

And the golden crown of pride ^. 

" Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there 1 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 

Beaming with golden hair ]" 

" Well saw I the ancient parents, 

Without the crown of pride ; 
They were moving slow, in weeds of woe, 

No maiden was by their side !" 
82 



350 



LONGFELLOW. 




grrg^s^^f--.; 



THE BUILDINa OF THE SHIP. 



" Build me straight, O worthy Master ! 

Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle !" 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 351 

The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played around his lips, 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round the bows of ships, 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of glee, 

He answered, " Ere long we will launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, 

As ever weathered a wintry sea !" 

And first with nicest skill and art, 

Perfect and finished in every part, 

A httle model the Master wrought, 

Which should be to the larger plan 

What the child is to the man. 

Its counterpart in miniature ; 

That with a hand more SAvift and sure 

The greater labor might be brought 

To answer to his iuAvard thought. 

And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 

The various ships that were built of yore, 

And above them all, and strangest of all 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 

Whose picture was hanging on the wall. 

With bows and stern raised high in air. 

And balconies hanging here and there. 

And signal lanterns and fiags afloat, 

And eight round towers, hke those that frown 

From some old castle, looking down 



352 LONaFELLOW. 

Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 

And he said with a smile, " Our ship, I wis, 

Shall be of another form than this !" 

It was of another form, indeed ; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft ; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast. 

Pressing down upon sail and mast. 

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 

Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 

With graceful curve and slow degrees, 

That she might be docile to the helm, 

And that the currents of parted seas. 

Closing behind, with mighty force. 

Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel. 
That should laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 

Covering many a rood of ground, 

Lay the timber piled around; 

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak. 

And scattered here and there, with these. 

The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; 

Brought from regions far away. 

From Pascagoula's sunny bay. 

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 353 

One thought, one word, can set in motion ! 
There's not a ship that sails the ocean. 
But every cHmate, every soil, 
Must bring its tribute, great or small, 
And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was rising o'er the sea, 

And long the level shadows lay. 

As if they, too, the beams would be 

Of some great, airy argosy, 

Framed and launched in a single day. 

The silent architect, the sun, 

Had hewn and laid them every one. 

Ere the work of man was yet begun. 

Beside the Master, when he spoke, 

A youth, against an anchor leaning. 

Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 

Only the long waves, as they broke 

In ripples on the pebbly beach. 

Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 

The old man and the fiery youth ! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

INIany a ship that sailed the main 

Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — 

The fiery youth, who was to be 

The heir of his dexterity. 

The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand. 

When he had built and launched from land 

What the elder head had planned, 

83 



354 LONGFELLOW. 

" Thus," said he, " will we build this ship ! 

Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 

And follow well this plan of mine. 

Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 

Of all that is unsound beware ! 

For only what is sound and strong 

To this vessel shall belong. 

Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 

Here together shall combine. 

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame. 

And the Union be her name ! 

For the day that gives her to the sea 

Shall give my daughter unto thee !" 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard ; 

And as he turned his face aside. 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride. 

Standing before 

Her father's door. 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 

Like a beauteous barge was she, 

StiU at rest on the sandy beach. 

Just beyond the billow's reach ; 

But he. 

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skiHiil grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 355 



It is the heart, and not the brain, 
That to the highest doth attain, 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far exceedeth all the rest ! 



Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 

Of axes and of mallets, plied 

With vigorous arms on every side ; 

Plied so deftly and so Avell, 

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship, 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 

AVas lying ready, and stretched along 

The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 

Happy, thrice happy, every one 

Who sees his labor well begun. 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 
The young man at the Master's door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
And within the porch, a little more 
E-emoved beyond the evening chill, 
The father sat, and told them tales 
Of wrecks in the great September gales. 
Of pirates upon the Spanish Main, 
And ships that never came back again, 
The chance and change of a sailor's life, 



356 LONGFELLOW. 

Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind. 

And the magic charm of foreign lands. 

With shadows of palms, and shining sands. 

Where the tumbling surf. 

O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 

Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 

As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 

And the trembling maiden held her breath 

At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 

With all its terror and mystery, 

The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 

That divides and yet unites mankind ! 

And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 

From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 

The silent group in the twilight gloom. 

And thoughtful faces, as in a dream; 

And for a moment one might mark 

What had been hidden by the dark. 

That the head of the maiden lay at rest. 

Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! 

Day by day the vessel grew, 
With timbers fashioned strong and true, 
Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, 
Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 
A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 
And around the bows and along the side 
The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 
Till after many a week, at length. 
Wonderful for form and strength. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 357 

Sublime in its enormous bulk ! 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 

And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbhng, seething 

Caldron, that glowed, 

And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 

And amid the clamors 

Of clattering hammers, 

He who listened heard now and then 

The song of the Master and his men : — 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle !" 

With oaken brace and copper band. 

Lay the rudder on the sand. 

That, like a thought, should have control 

Over the movement of the whole ; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 

Would reach down and grapple with the land. 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast ; 

And at the bows an image stood 

By a cunning artist carved in wood. 

With robes of white, that far behind. 

Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould. 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the Avater, 

81: 



358 LONGFEl.LOW. 

But modelled from the Master's daughter ! 

On many a dreary and misty night, 

'Twill be seen by the rays of the signal light, 

Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 

Like a ghost in its snow-white sark. 

The pilot of some phantom bark, 

Guiding the vessel in its flight, ■ 

By a path none other knows aright ! 

Behold, at last, 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swung into its place ; 

Shrouds and stays 

Holding it firm and fast ! 

Long ago, 

Li the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 

When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow. 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers. 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 

Those captive kings so straight and tall, 

To be shorn of their streaming hair. 

And, naked and bare. 

To feel the stress and the strain 

Of the wind and the reeling main, 

Whose roar 

Would remind them forevermore 

Of their native forests they should not see again. 



THE BUILDING OF TIIK SHIP. 359 

And eveiywhere 

The slender, graceful spars 

Poise aloft in the air, 

And at the masthead, 

White, blue, and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah ! Avhen the wanderer, lonely, friendless. 

In foreign harbors shall behold 

That flag unrolled, 

'Twill be as a friendly hand 

Stretched put from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless ! 

All is finished ! and at length 

Has come the bridal day 

Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

AVith fleecy clouds the sky is blanched. 

And o'er the bay, 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old. 

Centuries old. 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled. 

Paces restless to and fro. 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow. 

His beard of snow 

Heaves Avith the heaving of his breast. 



360 LONGFELLOW. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers gay. 

In honor of her marriage day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending. 

Round her like a veil descending. 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray, old sea. 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds. 
Broken by many a sunny fleck. 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said. 

The service read, 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head 

And in tears the good old Master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son. 

Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 

In silence, for he cannot speak, 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock. 

That has the ocean for its wold. 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 301 

Words of warning, words of cheer, 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor's heart, 

All its pleasures and its griefs. 

All its shallows and rocky reefs, 

All those secret currents, that flow 

With such resistless undertow. 

And lift and drift, with terrible force, 

The will from its moorings and its course. 

Therefore he spake, and thus said lie : — 

" Like unto ships far off at sea, 

Outward or homeward bound, are we. 

Before, behind, and all around. 

Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 

Seems at its distant rim to rise 

And climb the crystal wall of the skies. 

And then again to turn and sink. 

As if we could sHde from its outer brink. 

Ah ! it is not the sea. 

It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion, 

Now touching the very skies, 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 

Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 

Like the compass in its brazen ring. 

Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task we have to do. 

We shall sail securely, and safely reach 

85 



362 LONGFELLOW. 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 
The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 
Will be those of joy, and not of fear !" 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below. 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow. 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moyes, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel. 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound. 

She leaps into the Ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
That to the Ocean seemed to say, — 
" Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray. 
Take her to thy protecting arms. 
With all her youth and all her charms !" 

IIow beautiful she is ! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip. 

Are not the sounds of doubt or fear. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 363 

Sail forth into the sea of Kfe, 
O gentle, loving, trusting Avife, 
And safe firom all adversity 
Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 

Humanity with all its fears. 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

We know what Master laid thy keel. 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

AVho made each mast, and sail, and rope. 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

' fis of the Avave and not the rock ; 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale ! 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore. 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



HOLMES. 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings. 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wreqked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell. 
Where its dim dreaming life Avas wont to d^vell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil ; 
Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole Avith soft step its shining archway through, 
Built up its idle door. 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
more. 



A RHYMED LESSON. 305 

Tlianks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea, 
Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
sings : — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul. 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 



A RHYMED LESSON. 



Though books on manners are not out of print, 
An honest tongue may drop a harmless hint. 

Stop not, unthinking, every friend you meet, 
To spin your wordy fabric in the street ; 
While you are emptying your colloquial pack. 
The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his back. 

Nor cloud his features with the unwelcome tale 
Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale ; 
Health is a subject for his child, his wife, 
And the rude office that insures his life. 

86 



36G HOLMES. 

Look in his face, to meet thy neighbor's soul, 
Not on his garments, to detect a hole ; 
" How to observe," is what thy pages show. 
Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Martineau ! 
O, what a precious book the one would be 
That taught observers what they're not to see ! 

I tell in verse, — 'twere better done in prose, — 
One curious trick that everybody knows ; 
Once form this habit, and it's very strange 
How long it sticks, how hard it is to change. 
Two friendly people, both disposed to smile, 
Who meet, like others, every little while. 
Instead of passing with a pleasant bow. 
And " How d'ye dol" or " How's your uncle nowr' 
Impelled by feelings in their nature kind, 
But slightly weak, and somewhat undefined. 
Hush at each other, make a sudden stand. 
Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand; 
Each looks quite radiant, seems extremely struck. 
Their meeting so was such a piece of luck ; 
Each thinks the other thinks he's greatly pleased 
To screw the vice in Avhich they both are squeezed ; 
So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or snow. 
Both bored to death, and both afraid to go ! 

Your hat once lifted, do not hang your five. 
Nor, like slow Ajax, fighting still, retire ; 
When your old castor on your crown you clap. 
Go off; you've mounted your percussion cap! 

Some words on language may be well applied, 
And take them kindly, though they touch your pride ; 
Words lead to things ; a scale is more precise, — 
Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice. 



A RHYMED LESSON. 367 

Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips 
The native freedom of the Saxon lips ; 
See the brown peasant of the plastic South, 
How all his passions play about his mouth ! 
With us, the feature that transmits the soul, 
A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole. 
The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk 
Tie the small muscles when he strives to talk ; 
Not all the pumice of the polished town 
Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down ; 
Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race 
By this one mark, — he's awkward in the face ; — 
Nature's rude impress, long before he knew 
The sunny street that holds the sifted few. 

It can't be helped, though, if we're taken young, 
To gain some freedom of the lips and tongue ; 
But school and college often try in vain 
To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain ; 
One stubborn word will prove this axiom true ; — 
No quondam rustic can enunciate vieio. 

A few brief stanzas may be well employed 
To speak of errors we can all avoid. 

Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope 
The careless lips that speak of soap for soap ; 
Her edict exiles from her fair abode 
The clownish voice that utters road for rOad ; 
Less stern to him who calls his coat a coat, 
And steers his boat, believing it a boat. 
She pardoned one, our classic city's boast. 
Who said at Cambridge, most instead of most. 
But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot 
To hear a Teacher call a root a root. 



368 HOLMES. 

Once more ; speak clearly, if you speak at all ; 
Carve every word before you let it fall ; 
Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, 
Try over hard to roll the British R ; 
Do put your accents in the proper spot ; 
Don't, — let me beg you, — don't say " Howl" for " Whaf?" 
And, when you stick on conversation's burs. 
Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs. 

From little matters let us pass to less. 
And lightly touch the mysteries of dress ; 
The outward forms the inner man reveal, — 
We guess the pulp before we cut the peel. 

I leave the broadcloth, — coats and all the rest, — 
The dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys " vest," 
The things named "pants" in certain documents, 
A word not made for gentlemen, but " gents ;" 
One single precept might the whole condense : 
Be sure your tailor is a man of sense ; 
But add a little care, a decent pride. 
And always err upon the sober side. 

Three pairs of boots one pair of feet demands, 
If polished daily by the owner's hands ; 
If the dark menial's visit save from this. 
Have twice the number, for he'll sometimes miss. 
One pair for critics of the nicer sex, 
Close in the instep's clinging circumflex. 
Long, narrow, light ; the Gallic boot of love, 
A kind of cross between a boot and glove. 
But, not to tread on everlasting thorns, 
And sow in suffering what is reaped in corns, 



A RHYMED LESSON. 3G9 

Compact, but easy, strong, substantial, square, 
Let native art compile the medium pair. 
The third remains, and let your tasteful skill 
Here show some relics of affection still ; 
Let no stiflF cowhide, reeking from the tan. 
No rough caoutchouc, no deformed brogan. 
Disgrace the tapering outline of your feet. 
Though yellow torrents gurgle through the street ; 
But the patched calfskin arm against the flood 
In neat, light shoes, impervious to the mud. 

Wear seemly gloves ; not black, nor yet too light, 
And least of all the pair that once was white ; 
Let the dead party where you told your loves 
Bury in peace its dead bouquets and gloves ; 
Shave like the goat, if so your fancy bids, 
But be a parent, — don't neglect your kids. 

Have a good hat ; the secret of your looks 
Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks ; 
Virtue may flourish in an old cravat. 
But man and nature scorn the shocking hat. 
Does beauty slight you from her gay abodes % 
Like bright Apollo, you must take to Rlioades, 
Mount the new castor, — ice itself will melt ; 
Boots, gloves may fail ; the hat is always felt ! 

Be shy of breast-pins ; plain, well-ironed white, 
With small pearl buttons, — two of them in sight, — 
Is always genuine, while your gems may pass, 
Though real diamonds, for ignoble glass ; 

87 



370 HOLMES. 

But spurn those paltry cis- Atlantic lies, 
That round his breast the shabby rustic ties ; 
Breathe not the name, profaned to hallow things 
The indignant laundress blushes when she brings ! 

Our free-born race, averse to every check. 
Has tossed the yoke of Europe from its nech ; 
From the green prairie to the sea-girt town, 
The whole wide nation turns its collars down. 

The stately neck is manhood's manhest part ; 
It takes the life-blood freshest from the heart ; 
With short, curled ringlets close around it spread, 
How light and strong it lifts the Grecian head ! 
Thine, fair Erectheus of Minerva's wall ; — 
Or thine, young athlete of the Louvre's hall, 
Smooth as the pillar flashing in the sun 
That filled the arena where thy wreaths were won,- 
Firm as the band that clasps the antlered spoil 
Strained in the winding anaconda's coil ! 

I spare the contrast ; it were only kind 
To be a little, nay, intensely blind ; 
Choose for yourself: I know it cuts your ear; 
I know the points will sometimes interfere ; 
I know that often, hke the filial John, 
Whom sleep surprised with half his drapery on. 
You show your features to the astonished town 
With one side standing and the other down ; — 
But, O my friend ! my favorite fellow-man ! 
If Nature made you on her modern plan, 
Sooner than wander with your windpipe bare, — 
The fruit of Eden ripening in the air, — 



A RHYMED LESSON. 371 

With that lean head-stallt, that protruding chin, 
Wear standing collars, were they made of tin ! 
And have a neckcloth, — by the throat of Jove ! 
Cut from the funnel of a rusty stove ! 

The long-drawn lesson narrows to its close, 
Chill, slender, slow, the dwindled current flows ; 
Tired of the ripples on its feeble springs. 
Once more the Muse unfolds her upward wings. 



POE. 

THE BELLS. 

Hear the sledges with the bells — 
Silver bells — 
What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, beUs, bells. 
Bells bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkhng of the beUs. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their dehght ! 
From the molten-golden notes. 

And all in tune, 
What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 



THE BELLS. 373 

Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 

Hear the loud alarum bells — 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and fr'antic fire, 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit or never, 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 



374 POE. 

On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging, 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling, 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the beUs — 
Of the beUs— 
Of the bells, beUs, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 

Hear the tolling of the bells — 
Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night. 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people— 
They that dwell up in the steeple. 

All alone. 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 

In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory in so roUing 

On the human heart a stone — 



THE BELLS. 375 

They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 

They are Ghouls ; 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Rolls, 
A psean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells ! 
And he dances and he yells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the psean of the bells — 
Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, kneUs, knells. 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 
Of the beUs, bells, bells — 
To the tolling of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 
Bells, beUs, bells — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 



376 POE. 



THE HAUNTED PALACE. 

In the greenest of our valleys, 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace 

(Snow-white palace) reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion 

It stood there ! 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

Banners, yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow ; 
(This, all this, was in the olden 

Time, long ago.) 
And every gentle air that dallied, 

In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically, 

To a lute's well-tuned law ; 
Round about a throne, where, sitting 

(Porphyrogene !) 
In state his glory well-befitting. 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
Was the fair palace-door. 



THE HAUNTED PALACE. 377 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing. 

And sparkHng evermore 
A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty 

"Was but to sing, 
In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorroAV, 

Assailed the monarch's high estate ; 
(Ah ! let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall, dawn upon him, desolate !) 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed, 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers now within that valley. 

Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms, that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody ; 
While, like a rapid, ghastly riVer, 

Through the pale door, 
A hideous throng rush out forever, 

And laugh — but smile no more. 



89 



MOIIRIS. 




WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 



Woodman, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a single bough ! 
In youth it sheltered me, 

And I'll protect it now. 



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 379 

Twas my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot ; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not ! 

That old familiar tree. 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea. 

And wouldst thou hew it down ] 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties : 
Oh spare that aged oak. 

Now towering to the skies ! 

AVhen but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here ; 

My father pressed my hand — 
Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand ! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
Here shall the wild-bird sing. 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot ; 
While I've a hand to save. 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 



380 MORRIS. 



"LAND-HO!" 

Tip, up, loitJi the signal ! The land is in sight ! 
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! 
The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've passed, 
And the warm genial earth glads our vision at last. 
In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find. 
To soothe us in absence of those left behind. 
Land! — ^land-ho! All hearts glow with joy at the sight! 
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! 

The signal is waving ! Till morn we'll remain. 

Then part in the hope to meet one day again 

Eound the hearth-stone of home in the land of our birth, 

The holiest spot on the face of the earth ! 

Dear country ! our thoughts are as constant to thee, 

As the steel to the star, or the stream to the sea. 

Ho ! — land-ho ! We near it — we bound at the sight ! 

Then be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! 

The signal is answered ! The foam-sparkles rise 
Like tears from the fountain of joy to the eyes ! 
May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care, 
Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair ! 
One health, as chime gaily the nautical bells. 
To woman — God bless her ! — Avherever she dwells ! 
The pilot's ok boaed ! — and, thank Heaven, aU's right ! 
So be happy, if never again, boys, to-night ! 



BOKEE. 




A BALLAD OF SIR JOHX FRANKLIN. 



O, "WHITHER sail you, Sir John Franklin 1 
Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. 

To know if between the land and the pole 
I may find a broad sea-way. 

90 



382 BOKER. 

I charge you back, Sir John Franklin, 

As you would live and thrive ; 
For between the land and the frozen pole 

No man may sail alive. 

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 

And spoke unto his men : 
Half England is wrong, if he is right ; 

Bear off to westward then. 

O, whither sail you, brave Englishman \ 

Cried the little Esquimaux. 
Between your land and the polar star 

My goodly vessels go. 

Come down, if you would journey there, 

The little Indian said ; 
And change your cloth for fur clothing, 

Your vessel for a sled. 

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 
And the crew laughed with him too : — 

A sailor to change from ship to sled, 
I ween, were something new. 

All through the long, long, polar day. 

The vessels westward sped ; 
And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown, 

The ice gave way and fled. 

Gave way with many a hollow groan, 
And with many a surly roar. 



A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 383 

But it murmured and threatened on every side ; 
And closed where he sailed before. 

Ho ! see ye not, my merry men, 

The broad and open seal 
Bethink ye what the whaler said. 
Think of the little Indian's sled ! 

The crew laughed out in glee. 

Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold. 

The scud drives on the breeze, 
The ice comes looming from the north. 

The very sunbeams freeze. 

Bright summer goes, dark -winter comes — 

We cannot rule the year; 
But long ere summer's sun goes down. 

On yonder sea we'll steer. 

The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, 

And floundered down the galej 
The ships were staid, the yards were manned. 

And furled the useless sail. 

The summer's gone, the winter's come, 

We sail not on yonder sea : 
Why sail we not, Sir John Franklin ■? 

A silent man was he. 

The summer goes, the winter comes — 

We cannot rule the year : 
I ween, we cannot rule the ways. 

Sir John, wherein we'd steer. 



384 BOKER. 

The cruel ice came floating on, 

And closed beneath the lee, 
Till the thickening waters dashed no more ; 
'Twas ice around, behind, before — 

My God ! there is no sea ! 

What think you of the whaler now ■? 

What of the Esquimaux 1 
A sled were better than a ship, 

To cruise through ice and snow. 

Down sank the baleful crimson sun. 

The northern light came out. 
And glared upon the ice-bound ships, 

And shook its spears about. 

The snow came down, storm breeding storm, 

And on the decks was laid ; 
Till the weary sailor, sick at heart, 

Sank down beside his spade. 

Sir John, the night is black and long. 

The hissing wind is bleak, 
The hard, green ice is strong as death : — 

I prithee, Captain, speak ! 

The night is neither bright nor short, 

The singing breeze is cold. 
The ice is not so strong as hope — 

The heart of man is bold ! 

What hope can scale this icy wall, 
High o'er the main flag-staff? 



A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 385 

Above the ridges, the wolf and bear 
Look down with a patient, settled stare, 
Look down on us and laugh. 

The summer went, the winter came — 

We could not rule the year : 
But summer Avill melt the ice again, 
And open a path to the sunny main. 

Whereon our ships shall steer. 

The winter went, the summer went, 

The winter came around : 
But the hard green ice was strong as death. 
And the voice of hope sank to a breath, 

Yet caught at every sound. 

Hark ! heard ye not the noise of guns "? 

And there, and there, again "? 
'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar, 

As he turns in the frozen main. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! the Esquimaux 

Across the ice-fields steal : 
God give them grace for their charity ! 

Ye pray for the silly seal. 

Sir John, where are the English fields. 

And where are the English trees. 
And where are the little English flowers 

That open in the breeze 1 

Be stni, be still, my brave sailors ! 
You shall see the fields again, 

91 



38G BOKER. 

And smell the scent of the opening flowers, 
The grass and the waving grain. 

Oh ! when shall I see my orphan child ! 

My Mary waits for me. 
Oh ! when shall I see my old mother, 

And pray at her trembling knee 1 

Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 

Think not such thoughts again. 
But a tear froze slowly on his cheek, 

He thought of Lady Jane. 

Ah ! bitter, bitter grows the cold. 
The ice grows more and more ; 

More settled stare the wolf and bear, 
More patient than before. 

Oh ! think you, good Sir John Franklin, 

We'll ever see the land 1 
'Twas cruel to send us here to starve. 

Without a helping hand. 

'Twas cruel. Sir John, to send us here, 

So far from help or home. 
To starve and freeze on this lonely sea ; 
I ween, the Lords of the Admiralty 

Would rather send than come. 

Oh ! whether we starve to death alone, 

Or sail to our own country. 
We have done what man has never done — 
The truth is founded, the secret won — 

We passed the Northern Sea ! 



SIMMS. 



THE BROOKLET. 



A LITTLE farther on, there is a brook 

Where the breeze lingers idly. The high trees 

Have roofed it with their crowding limbs and leaves, 

So that the sun drinks not from its sweet fount, 

And the shade cools it. You may hear it now, 

A low, faint beating, as, upon the leaves 

That lie beneath its rapids, it descends 

In a fine, showery rain, that keeps one tune, 

And 'tis a sweet one, still of constancy. 

Beside its banks, through the whole Kvelong day. 
Ere yet I noted much the speed of time, 
And knew him but in songs and ballad-books. 
Nor cared to know him better, I have lain ; 
With thought unchid by harsher din than came 
From the thick thrush, that, gliding through the copse. 
Hurried above me ; or the timid fawn 
That came down to the brooklet's edge to drink. 
And sauntered through its shade, cropping the grass. 
Even where I lay, — ^having a quiet mood. 
And not disturbing, while surveying mine. 

Thou smilest — and on thy Up a straying thought 
Says I have trifled — calls my hours misspent. 
And looks a solemn warning ! A true thought, — 
And so my errant mood were well rebuked ! — 



388 SIMMS. 

Yet there was pleasant sadness that became 
Meetly the gentle heart and pliant sense, 
In that same idlesse — gazing on that brook 
So pebbly and so clear, — pratthng away, 
Like a young child, all thoughtless, till it goes 
From shadow into sunlight, and is lost. 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 

Not in the sky, 

Where it was seen. 

Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave. 

Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep, — 

Though green, 

And beautiful, its caves of mystery. 

Shall the bright watcher have 

A place — and, as of old, high station keep. 

Gone, gone ! 

O, never more to cheer 

The mariner who holds his course alone 

On the Atlantic, through the weary night. 

When the stars turn to watchers and do sleep. 

Shall it appear. 

With the sweet fixedness of certain light, 

Down-shining on the shut eyes of the deep. 

Vain, vain ! 

Hopeful most idly then, shall he look forth. 

That mariner from his bark — 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 389 



Howe'er the north 

Doth raise his certain lamp when tempests lower — 

He sees no more that perished light again ! 

And gloomier grows the hour 

Which may not, through the thick and crowding dark, 

Restore that lost and loved one to her tower. 

He looks, — the shepherd on Chaldea's hills, 

Tending his flocks, — 

And wonders the rich beacon doth not blaze. 

Gladdening his gaze ; 

And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, 

Guiding him safely home through perilous ways ! 

How stands he in amaze, 

Still wondering, as the drowsy silence fills 

The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils 

Its leaden dews — how chafes he at the night. 

Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light. 

So natural to his sight ! 

And lone, 

AVhere its first splendors shone. 

Shall be that pleasant company of stars : 

How should they know that death 

Such perfect beauty mars ; 

And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, 

Fallen from on high. 

Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die — 

All their concerted springs of harmony. 

Snapped rudely, and the generous music gone. 

A strain — a mellow strain — 

Of wailing sweetness, fiUed the earth and sky ; 

92 



390 SIMMS. 

The stars lamenting in unborrowed pain 
That one of the selectest ones must die ; 
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest ! 
Alas ! 'tis evermore the destiny. 
The hope, heart-cherished, is the soonest lost ; 
The flower first budded soonest feels the frost : 
Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest I 
And, like the pale star shooting down the sky, 
Look they not ever brightest when they fly 
The desolate home they blessed'? 



BILLOWS. 



Gently, with sweet commotion. 

Sweeping the shore, 
BiUows that break from ocean. 

Rush to our feet ; 
Slaves, that, with fond devotion, 

Prone to adore. 
Seek not to stint with measure, 

Service that's meet ; — 
Bearing their liquid treasure. 

Flinging it round. 
Shouting, the while, the pleasure 

True service knows. 
Then, as if blessed with leisure. 

Flung on the yellow ground 
Taking repose ! 



PRENTICE. 



SABBATH EVENINa. 



How calmly sinks the parting sun I 

Yet twilight hngers still ; 
And beautiful as dream of Heaven 

It slumbers on the hill ; 
Earth sleeps, with all her glorious things, 
Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings, 
And, rendering back the hues above, 
Seems resting in a trance of love. 

Kound yonder rocks the forest-trees 

In shadowy groups recline. 
Like saints at evening bowed in prayer 

Around their holy shrine ; 
And through their leaves the night-winds blow 
So calm and still, their music low 
Seems the mysterious voice of prayer, 
Soft echoed on the evening air. 

And yonder western throng of clouds, 

Retiring from the sky. 
So calmly move, so softly glow. 

They seem to fancy's eye 
Bright creatures of a better sphere. 
Come down at noon to worship here. 



392 PRENTICE. 

And, from their sacrifice of love, 
Returning to their home above. 

The blue isles of the golden sea, 

The night-arch floating by, 
The flov^^ers that gaze upon the heavens, 

The bright streams leaping by, 
Are living v^ith religion — deep 
On earth and sea its glories sleep, 
And mingle with the starlight rays. 
Like the soft light of parted days. 

The spirit of the holy eve 

Comes through the silent air 
To feeling's hidden spring, and wakes 

A gush of music there ! 
And the far depths of ether beam 
So passing fair, we almost dream 
That we can rise, and wander through 
Their open paths of trackless blue. 

Each soul is filled with glorious dreams, 

Each pulse is beating wild ; 
And thought is soaring to the shrine 

Of glory undefiled ! 
And holy aspirations start. 
Like blessed angels, from the heart. 
And bind — for earth's dark ties are riven- 
Our spirits to the gates of heaven. 



TO A LADY. 393 



TO A LADY. 



I THINK of thee when morning springs 
From sleep, with phimage bathed in dew, 

And, like a young bird, lifts her wings 
Of gladness on the welkin blue. 

And when, at noon, the breath of love 
O'er flower and stream is wandering free, 

And sent in music from the grove, 
I think of thee — I think of thee. 

I think of thee, when, soft and wide, 
The evening spreads her robes of light, 

And, like a young and timid bride. 
Sits blushing in the arms of night. 

And when the moon's sweet crescent springs 
In light o'er heaven's deep, waveless sea. 

And stars are forth, like blessed things, 
I think of thee — I think of thee. 

I think of thee ; — that eye of flame. 
Those tresses falling bright and free. 

That brow, where " Beauty writes her name," 
I think of thee — I think of thee. 



93 



CONRAD. 



THE STRICKEN. 



Heayy ! heavy ! Oh, my heart 
Seems a cavern deep and drear, 

From whose dark recesses start, 
Flutteringly, like birds of night. 

Throes of passion, thoughts of fear, 
Screaming in their flight ; 

Wildly o'er the gloom they sweep. 
Spreading a horror dim — a woe that cannot weep ! 

Weary ! weary ! What is life 
But a spectre-crowded tomb 1 
Startled with unearthly strife — 

Spirits fierce in confhct met, 
In the lightning and the gloom. 

The agony and sweat ; 
Passions Avild and powers insane, 
And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Promethean 
pain ! 

Gloomy — gloomy is the day ; 

Tortured, tempest-tost the night ; 
Fevers that no founts allay — 

Wild and wildering unrest — 



THE PllIDE OF WORTH. 3^5 

Blessings festering into blight — 

A gored and gasping breast ! 
From their lairs what terrors start, 
At that deep earthquake voice- — the earthquake of the 
heart '? 

Hopeless ! hopeless ! Every path 

Is with ruins thick bestrewn ; 
Hurtling bolts have fallen to scathe 

All the greenness of my heart, 
And I now am Misery's own — 

We never more shall part ! 
My spirit's deepest, darkest wave 
Writhes with the wrestling storm. Sleep ! sleep ! the 
grave ! the grave ! 



THE PRIDE OP WORTH. 

There is a joy in worth, 
A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm ; 
Which, never daunted, ever bright and warm. 

Mocks at the idle, shadowy ills of earth ; 
Amid the gloom is bright, and tranquil in the storm. 

It asks, it needs no aid ; 
It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne : 
There, in its self-created heaven, alone. 

No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid. 
It sits a lesser God : — life, life is aU its own ! 



396 CONRAD. 

The stoic was not wrong ; 
There is no evil to the virtuous brave ; 
Or in the battle's rift, or on the wave, 

Worshipped or scorned, alone or 'mid the throng, 
He is himself — a man ! not life's nor fortune's slave. 

Power and wealth and fame 
Are but as weeds upon life's troubled tide : 
Give me but these, a spirit tempest-tried, 

A brow unshrinking and a soul of flame. 
The joy of conscious worth, its courage and its pride ! 



SONNET. 

Thy kingdom come ! Speed, angel wings, that time ! 
Then, known no more the guile of gain, the leer 
Of lewdness, frowning power or paUid fear, 

The shriek of suffering or the howl of crime ! 

All will be Thine — all blest ! Thy kingdom come ! 
Then in Thy arms the sinless earth will rest, 
As smiles the infant on its mother's breast. 

The dripping bayonet and the kindhng drum 

Unknown — for not a foe ; the thong unknown — 
For not a slave ; the cells o'er which Despair 
Flaps his black wing and fans the sigh-swollen air, 

Deserted ! Night will pass, and hear no groan ; 

Glad Day look down, nor see nor guilt nor guile ; 

And all that Thou hast made reflect Thy smile ! 



COXE. 

THE HEART'S SONG. 

In the silent midnight watches, 

List — thy bosom-door ! 
How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, 

Knocketh evermore ! 
Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating ; 

'Tis thy heart of sin : 
'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth 

Eise, and let me in ! 

Death comes down with reckless footstep 

To the hall and hut : 
Think you Death will stand a-knocking 

Where the door is shut "? 
Jesus waiteth — waiteth — waiteth ; 

But thy door is fast ! 
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth : 

Death breaks in at last. 

Then 'tis thine to stand — entreating 

Christ to let thee in : 
At the gate of heaven beating, 

Wailing for thy sin. 

94 



398 



COXE. 




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Nay, alas ! thou foolish virgin, 
Hast thou then forgot, 

Jesus waited long to know thee, 
But he knows thee not ! 



WAYSIDE HOMES. 



As I rode on my errand along, 
I came where a prim little spire 

Chimed out to the landscape a song. 
And glowed in the sunset like fire. 



WAYSIDE HOMES. o99 

Its cross beamed a beckoning ray, 

And the home of my Mother I knew ; 

So I pressed to its portal to pray, 

And my book from my bosom I drew. 

How sweet was the service within, 

And the plain rustic chaunt how sincere ! 

How welcome the pardon of sin, 

And the kind parting blessing how dear ! 

And the parson — 1 knew not his name. 

And the brethren — each face was unknown ; 

But the Church and the prayers were the same, 
And my heart claimed them all for its own. 

For I knew — in my own little nook, 
That eve, the same Psalter was said. 

And Lessons, the same from the Book, 
By my far-away darlings Avere read. 

So I prayed, and went on in my way, 

Blessing God for the Church He hath given : 

My steed on his journey was gay ; 
So was I — on my journey to Heaven. 



L' ENVOI. 

" Plus Ultra !" on the restless, Western main, 
Striving to reach the unattained we steer, 
Like Him whose holy faith, o'ermastering fear, 

Went forth to find a world for doubting Spain. 

Lo ! where rich heralds come, a beckoning train, — 
Bright floating boughs, with berries red and rare, — 
Strange birds, with whispering song and plumage fair, — 

The moving light which fires his wildered brain ! 

He found his tropic goal, in morning light ! 

But Avhere is ours '? Behold its glorious beams, — 

Our Country's Future ! In Time's mirror bright 
Rises the new creation of our dreams ; 

While the long, reverent train of Poets come 

To invoke thy loftiest song, fair land of Freedom's home. 

H. C. 




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